Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me A Match
by Dead Man's Toe
Summary: When Irene Adler reappears, Mycroft Holmes forces Sherlock to take her in, thinking that she can distract him from his unrequited love for John. Meanwhile, Sherlock decides to do something about Mycroft's isolation. Contains unrequited Johnlock, unrequited Sherlolly, Adlock, Mollcroft, and John/Mary.
1. Lonely Hearts

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock.

**Set just after the events of The Sign Of Three.**

* * *

_Who leaves a wedding early?_

A heartbroken man, that's who. A man who had loved too much and hurt too deeply. A man who could no longer hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

As Sherlock approached his flat alone, a single tear carved a path down his gaunt cheek. He made no move to wipe it away but let it fall onto his coat. He couldn't help it. Everything hurt so much. Another tear fell from his other eye, creating a twin streak along the other side of his face.

Upon seeing the straightened door knocker, Sherlock instantly wiped his face clean. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping to erase any red that might have gathered there, before taking a deep breath and entering. The lights were on, and the faint scent of tea hung in the air. Sherlock shut the door behind him and went up the stairs.

Mycroft was sitting in his flat, on his couch, with a cup of tea in hand. Its twin sat on the coffee table invitingly. Sherlock picked it up and sat, lacking all his usual protest. The warm steam hit his nose. It was a small comfort, but Sherlock was grateful none the less.

"What brings you here, brother?" Sherlock asks after taking a sip.

"Concern for you," Mycroft replied uncharacteristically honest.

"I'm not involved," Sherlock protested weakly.

Mycroft's eyes examined him with sympathy. Sherlock steeled himself for the painful deduction that was undoubtedly about to pass his brother's lips. He knew it, of course. How could he not? It completely consumed him day and night, causing such incredible aching and longing. Still, hearing it out loud would force him to admit its validity, which would make it all hurt even more.

"You love him," Mycroft finally said. His voice softened with pain. An unrecognizable emotion lit up his eyes as he took a long sip. "How did I not see it before?"

"Because what do either of us know about love?" Sherlock replied, half answering and half asking.

Mycroft remained silent as he shifted closer to Sherlock, letting their shoulders touch. Sherlock felt the hesitancy in his movements and leaned into him reassuringly. It was nostalgic, sitting there with his brother. The last time they had sat together like this was after Redbeard had been put down.

His brother leaned closer, and it dawned on Sherlock that Mycroft was lonely too. He sat alone in that large house every night with no one to talk to. He was probably as comforted by Sherlock's presence as Sherlock was by Mycroft's.

Sherlock ran through a list of names in his head. Anthea? No, she was too young, too cold, too distant. Lestrade? He was single. However, he had kids, and Sherlock did not wish to overwhelm his brother. Donovan? She had been much kinder since Sherlock had returned, but he couldn't imagine her being remotely interested in Mycroft.

After another long sip, the cup was empty. Sherlock sighed. Only one of them needed to be miserable. Sherlock resolved to find his brother a suitable companion. It would provide him with a much needed distraction as he adapted back to living on his own again.

The loneliness hung in the air, making Sherlock's lungs feel heavy. Finally, Mycroft stood to leave. "If you need anything, you know where to find me," he said before exiting the flat. Sherlock nodded mutely. He didn't trust his voice. Mycroft couldn't give him the one thing he needed. John. Sherlock needed to hold him and know that he loved him back, but that would never happen.

The image of John's smiling face after he had kissed Mary kept appearing at the front of his brain. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and rubbed at them, hoping to scrub it away. John was happy with somebody else, but he was happy. That was all that mattered, Sherlock reminded himself.

Sherlock crossed the room to John's armchair. Away from prying eyes, he curled up on it and let himself sob. By the time his coat sleeves were soaked, he had fallen asleep.

* * *

The familiar ache of loneliness followed Mycroft as he walked down Baker Street the next morning. Truth be told, his brother was the only friend he had, and there was nothing he could do for him.

Just as he had the previous night, he invited himself in. The flat was unusually quiet for this time of day. The sun was already high in the sky, and the birds were awake, making as much noise as possible. Mycroft climbed the stairs and opened the door, unsure of what he would find.

There, on John's armchair, lay Sherlock. He was still in his clothes from the wedding, and faint tear tracks could be seen on his face. Mycroft felt his heart break again for his brother. Deciding that now was probably a bad time to disturb him, Mycroft left quietly.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Mycroft with sorrowful eyes. "Is he alright?" she asked, her voice quivering.

Mycroft descended the stairs to stand in front of her. "You will look after him, right?"

The landlady nodded her head eagerly. By the dark circles under her eyes, Mycroft could tell that she hadn't slept much last night.

"He needs us, Mrs. Hudson. Then maybe he will be alright."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Mycroft exited the flat to see the black car he had asked Anthea to send to pick him up. He climbed inside the back, expecting to at least see his assistant inside, typing away on her phone. Instead, he was alone.

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Mycroft knew that he should be used to the feeling by now. He was always alone. With a sigh, he leaned against the window. The glass made the scenery appear faded. The city that once held so much life now was dull and grey. With a heavy heart, he checked his phone. For a split second, Mycroft hoped it would be purely friendly, but that hope was quickly dashed. It was always work related.

The car arrived at his office. Mycroft, as if in a trance, walked towards it. His eyes were glazed over, but not in the usual cold expression. To anybody watching, Mycroft appeared sad.

Some part of Mycroft knew that he should hide his emotions and appear to be the cold businessman he always was, but he didn't have the energy. Another part of him wanted somebody to notice and ask how he was doing. Nobody did.

Mycroft sat in his office chair, resigned to another day of the same dull ache. Not even running the government could distract him from that ever present emptiness inside. Anthea surely had noticed by now, but she never mentioned it. Even now, she didn't give Mycroft a second glance as she dropped papers off at his desk and left.

For a moment, Mycroft considered calling her back to ask her how she was, but he knew it was foolish. She didn't care for him. Nobody here did.

* * *

Molly knows that she shouldn't feel disappointed when Tom texts her, but she can't control it anymore than she could control the weather. With a sigh, she types a short reply. Within a few minutes, he texts her again, and she can't help the surge of irritation she feels.

She shuts the sound off and stuffs the phone into her pocket. Try as she might to deny it, she knew the reason behind her annoyance. She wishes it was Sherlock texting her instead.

As she pushed the door open to the flat, she imagined him greeting her. Instead, only Toby mewed at her. "Hi, Tobes," she replied with a sigh. She seemed to be doing a lot of sighing these days.

Toby rubbed against her legs, and Molly smiled despite herself. "I'm going out to dinner with Tom tonight," she told him. She bent down and scooped him up in her arms. He purred with delight as he settled against her chest. She sat on the couch and buried her face into his soft fur.

"I don't love him," she admitted. Toby stared up at her with an expression that seemed to say, Yeah, Molly, we all know.

"I'm over Sherlock," Molly replied sternly. "Really. I am. Which is why I'm here complaining about my fiancé who I don't love to my cat."

Toby pawed at her face in an expression that Molly knew meant he wanted food. He jumped off her lap and ran to the kitchen. With another long sigh, Molly followed him.

She dumped a scoop of cat food into his bowl and watched as he devoured it greedily. "Good to know somebody loves me," Molly joked. A pang of sudden loneliness struck her chest. Molly ran her hands over her face and sighed for probably the hundredth time that day.

"I should get ready," she said aloud to nobody in particular.

She walked to her bedroom where she had lain a dress out on the bed. She changed into it quickly and stared at herself in the mirror. Not for the first time, she wished it were Sherlock taking her to dinner.

When the doorbell rang, Molly grabbed her purse and her best fake smile before going out to meet her fiancé.

* * *

It had been such a long time since Irene had been in England. After Sherlock had rescued her, she had fled to Portugal, where she could lay low.

She had lived a completely different life there. She got a job as an office secretary. She rented a house. She fostered dogs. To any outsider, Irene Adler appeared completely normal.

The dominatrix life was far behind her. Irene had successfully integrated herself into society. She was confident that she had dropped completely off the radar, and that nobody, save Sherlock Holmes, could find her.

However, she must not have been as thorough as she thought, because a letter arrived on her doorstep early one morning from her old assistant. The letter informed her that her mother was ill, and that her presence was requested back in England.

Without a hesitation, Irene packed and left. As she rode away in a cab, she wondered if she would ever see her house again. It was dangerous, Irene knew, but she had to risk it to see her mother.

Now, as she walked through the London airport, Irene's heart was pounding. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she waited for a cab.

As soon as the cab pulled up, Irene lowered her head to let her hair cover her face. She doubted she would be recognized, but she was still nervous. Softly, she gave the cabbie the address of the hospital.

Irene watched the passing scenery with a growing sense of nostalgia. She had been homesick, but staying hadn't been an option until now. As the cabbie drove in silence, Irene was pleased to discover that she remembered the way.

It was very surreal as Irene stepped out of the cab and paid him to wait. She kept her head lowered as she approached the hospital. The Iceman had cameras everywhere.

She found her mother's room without incident and sat at her bedside. Soon, Irene would find a hotel, but for now, she took her mother's hand and sat with her.


	2. Return Of The Ex-Dominatrix

**Set after the events of His Last Vow**

* * *

As the file fell onto his desk, Mycroft's heart rate quickened. He never thought he would be seeing that file again. He glanced up at Anthea, whose face was as blank and emotionless as ever. "There's been an incident, sir," she said cooly. "It appears that Ms. Adler is alive and well."

"Where is she now?" Mycroft asked. With shaky hands, he opened the file and glanced through the pictures. Ms. Adler had been in London for months now, going back and forth between the hospital and her dingy flat.

"In custody. We didn't discover her until yesterday, at her mother's funeral," Anthea answered.

Mycroft closed the file and put his fingers on his temples. After the recent reappearance of Moriarty, he hadn't slept much. He was starting to get a headache thinking of all the extra trouble Irene Adler could add.

"Also, your brother called with new information about Moriarty," Anthea added.

At the mention of his brother, Mycroft smiled. An idea had formed in his mind. "Well, I suppose Ms. Adler will be needing a babysitter, then."

Anthea's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Do you think that is wise, sir?"

Mycroft rose. "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I'm going up to see her."

"Already done, sir," Anthea replied with a rare smile.

She escorted Mycroft out of his office. As he followed, his mind wandered. Last time Irene had been in England, she had nearly brought the nation to its knees. However, judging from the file, she had put it all behind her. There was limited information about her time in Portugal, but Mycroft believed that she had given up her business of collecting dangerous information.

Last time, she had also shone brightly enough to capture Sherlock's attention. Mycroft was counting on it happening again.

Anthea brought Mycroft to a discreet corner of the building on the top floor. "I had your men bring her up here until you could decide what to do with her. The Prime Minister has been informed of her presence here."

His men were guarding the door to the interrogation room. They stepped aside when they saw Mycroft approach. He turned the knob, holding his breath. She was there, chained to the desk. Irene didn't look up as he approached and sat across from her. He was vaguely aware of Anthea closing the door behind them, but all his attention was focused on the ex-dominatrix in front of him.

She looked tired. Dark circles covered her eyes. Her hair and clothes were ruffled. The stress and grief showed on her face.

"Ms. Adler," Mycroft started. "Welcome back to England."

"Why couldn't you just let me go?" Irene asked softly, finally turning to face him. "I've been clean. I had fallen off the radar."

"Not very well, apparently," Mycroft remarked.

"My mother died. What did you expect, Iceman?" Irene replied bitterly.

"Well, as it just so happens, you're in luck," Mycroft continued smoothly.

Irene gaped for a moment in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I have a brother in need of a flat mate."

Irene's eyes lit up in realization. "You are letting me go," she realized.

Mycroft held up his hand. "Only on the condition you agree to stay with Sherlock where we can keep an eye on you."

The ex-dominatrix narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why are you doing this?"

Mycroft signaled Anthea to remove Irene's handcuffs. "Do you remember Dr. Watson?"

"Of course!" Irene replied indignantly as she rubbed at her now free wrists.

"He has gotten married."

Irene's face softened at the news. "Poor thing," she said softly. "He really loved John."

"So, do we have a deal, Ms. Adler?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, Iceman. We do."

Mycroft turned to Anthea, hoping to see her smile. Her face was blank, however, as she motioned for Mycroft and Irene to follow her. His heart sank a little, but he quickly shook it off. All that mattered was that he finally had a way to help Sherlock.

* * *

To say that Irene was relieved would have been an understatement. She had fully expected Mycroft to order her execution when he stepped into that dim interrogation room. She was just happy to be leaving with her life. She never dreamed that she would be returning to Sherlock.

As Mycroft's car came to a stop, Irene threw open the door eagerly. "You coming, Iceman?" she called. She heard his footsteps behind her as she strutted up to the flat.

After straightening the door knocker, Mycroft opened the door to let her in. As she entered, Irene was suddenly a little nervous. She had no idea how Sherlock would respond to her sudden reappearance. Slowly, she walked up the stairs. The sweet sound of the violin filled the air.

As Irene listened to the song, her heart broke slightly. It was the saddest sound she had ever heard. She paused in front of his door, biting her lip gently. "Is he okay?" she asked softly.

Mycroft gave her no response as he opened the door and invited himself in. Sherlock was standing at the window. At the sound of visitors, he stopped playing and gently set the instrument down. "I left a message with your assistant," he said.

"Hi, Sherlock," Irene replied.

His body stiffened and froze. Irene's heart pounded in her chest as she waited for him to turn around. When he finally did, Irene had to bite her lip to keep from gasping aloud. His entire face was gaunt, and the light had gone out of his eyes. The robe hung loosely off of his thin frame. He looked as if he might collapse from exhaustion. "What brings you to London?" he asked.

"My sick mother," Irene replied.

"Yes, and you've just been to her funeral," Sherlock deduced.

Irene chuckled softly. "Just as amazing as ever."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the floor as he frowned. Irene wanted to reach out and hug him, but she was unsure of how he would respond to that.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock, Ms. Adler needs a place to stay where we can watch her. Since you have a vacancy, I could think of no better place than right here."

"She can stay," Sherlock replied. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her yet.

"Very well," Mycroft replied. "I will go to her flat to collect her things."

"I'll send somebody to help," Sherlock replied as Mycroft turned to go.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, Irene gave in and wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. He awkwardly lifted his hands and lightly hugged her back. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

"I'm managing," he replied, shrugging her off. "I suppose you knew even before I did."

"How is he?" she asked.

"John and Mary are perfectly happy."

Irene reached out and stroked his cheek gently. He leaned into the touch, and Irene's heart broke again. It was a just a testament to how lonely he was. "Do you still go on cases?" she asked.

"Together? Yes, but I still find myself working alone often," Sherlock replied sadly. "What's the flat address? I need to send Molly Hooper over to meet Mycroft."

Irene gave him her address and watched as he texted. "Who's Molly?" she asked.

"A friend. A very lonely friend who might do Mycroft some good."

Irene smiled knowingly. "You Holmes boys, playing matchmaker with each other."

"Only one of us needs to be miserable," Sherlock replied.

Irene sat down on the couch and motioned for Sherlock to join her. He did without any protest, to Irene's surprise. She picked up the remote and flipped through the channels on the television. "Let's watch something while we wait. Forrest Gump is on. Have you seen that?"

"I haven't," Sherlock replied.

Irene scooted closer to him. He didn't seem to notice as he fixed his eyes on the television screen.

* * *

Molly Hooper nearly swore when she saw the cryptic text pop up on her phone.

"I'm not going to go," Molly told herself. "I'm not going to be at his beck and call."

So, naturally, Molly ended up standing in front of the tiny flat with no idea what Sherlock wanted her to do. She eyed the large black vehicle parked just in front. "What am I getting myself into?" she grumbled. Hesitantly, she stepped up to the front door and knocked.

To her surprise, the door swung open to reveal Mycroft Holmes. "Sherlock didn't tell you why he sent you here?" he asked without preamble.

"Er, no," Molly answered awkwardly.

Mycroft motioned with his hand for her to come inside, which she did. The entire flat was in boxes. Two of Mycroft's agents were moving around, packing. "Ms. Hooper, do you remember Irene Adler?"

A sudden wave of jealousy washed over Molly. She swallowed it down and answered, "Faintly."

"She has reappeared, despite my attempts to have her ended. Since it is clear that she has kept her hands clean since her disappearance, he is being put under surveillance at Sherlock's flat."

Molly's hands curled into fists as she bit back a snarky remark. The movement did not go unnoticed by Mycroft, who gave her a sympathetic smile. She ignored it and picked up a box. "I'll load."

The pathologist was fuming as she loaded boxes into the trunk. "I can't believe him," she muttered to herself, dropping her load.

"My brother can be frustrating to deal with."

Molly jumped at Mycroft's voice behind her. "Oh! I d-didn't, uh, didn't s-see-"

The man held up his hand. "Quite alright. I have that effect on people."

Under his scrutinizing gaze, Molly squirmed. "Eh, here, let me take that," she stammered awkwardly. She reached forward and took the box out of Mycroft's hands and loaded it in the trunk.

"Thank you," he replied.

With the car loaded, Mycroft turned back to Molly. "May I offer you a ride home?" he asked.

"Oh, y-yes, thank you," Molly answered.

Mycroft held open the door for her as she climbed in. The nervous pathologist looked anywhere but at him as he slid in next to her.

He was so like his brother, and yet so different. They both held an air of quiet sophistication, but Mycroft seemed gentler somehow. Perhaps it was the smoothness of each movement, or the softness in his eyes, Molly mused.

"You are the pathologist who helped my brother fake his death," he stated.

Molly looked up at him, startled. "Y-yes, that was me."

"Thank you very much, Molly Hooper," the man continued. "If there is anything you need, then you need only ask me."

He held out a card with his phone number on it. Molly took it with trembling hands and pocketed it. "T-thanks," she stuttered. Her heart felt as of it would break her rib cage at any moment.

Mycroft's gaze softened. "Nothing will ever compare to the life of my brother, which you have saved."

* * *

It had been distressing to see John's room transform into Irene's room. Without looking too suspicious, Sherlock had tried to bring everything he could into his own room, including sheets, books, jumpers, anything John had left behind. He even maneuvered the armchair into his own room.

Now, a blanket that had been on John's bed was pulled up around him. He hugged a pillow tightly to his chest as he curled in on himself. As he did every night, he tried to imagine it was John he held. It was all too easy, as Sherlock had spent many hours studying that man.

He had no idea why he tortured himself with such pleasant thoughts when he knew that in the morning he would just wake up alone. The truth was that he was addicted, and this was a much worse addiction than any he had ever had in the past.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had last seen John, and that was only for a short while as Sherlock deduced who the criminal was and where to find him. All too soon, John had returned home to Mary.

Sherlock dug his phone out from under his pillow and checked it. There were no missed calls; no new messages. With a heavy heart, he glanced through his old messages. The last one was from two weeks ago, when Sherlock had invited John out to the crime scene. He scrolled through the previous conversations. A few tears dropped from his eyes. The detective made no move to wipe them away, instead letting them gather on his pillow.

After replacing his phone, he clutched the pillow at his chest tighter. He wished with all his being that there could be a murder tomorrow so he could see John.


	3. Friends

Her (because she did still think of him as hers) high-functioning sociopath had been behaving decidedly unsociopathic-like as of late, and it was starting to worry Molly. She hadn't heard a rude or sarcastic comment directed at her in weeks, but it wasn't because Sherlock had suddenly developed manners. He was sad. Everybody who was close to him knew it except for John, the reason for his sadness. Despite her best efforts, nothing Molly did or said could pull the detective's mind away from him.

Fidgeting nervously, Molly knocked on the wood door in front of her. She straightened her scarf and rocked slightly on her heels as she waited.

Mary Watson opened the door with a bright smile on her face. "Molly Hooper! Please, come on in." She opened the door wider, allowing the pathologist to step inside.

"I, um, I need to talk to John. Is he here?" Molly asked nervously.

"He's in the kitchen, making his coffee," she answered. She walked further into the house, guiding Molly along. Her arms were resting gently on her stomach. To Molly, it looked as if she was due any day now.

"John, honey, we have a visitor," Mary called out as she entered the living room. She sat down on the couch and clasped her hands over her stomach. "He's in there," she said to Molly, nodding at the kitchen doorway.

Molly muttered her thanks, and walked into the kitchen. The smell of warm coffee greeted her nose, causing her to smile slightly. John was there leaning against the counter, mug in hand. "Hello Molly," he said pleasantly, a sleepy smile on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"When's the last time you saw Sherlock?" she asked. Her hands wrung nervously against her will.

John's eyes moved towards the ceiling in thought. "I saw him last week. I just popped by his flat for a quick visit."

"And did he seem a little off to you?" Molly asked. "I mean, off for Sherlock."

John frowned and furrowed his brows in worry. "Not that I noticed. Why? What's wrong?"

Molly laughed nervously. "This may sound crazy, but he seems lonely. I think he misses you."

John bit the corner of his lip gently, thinking. "I'll stop by to see him today," he said. "I'll try to reassure him that as soon as the baby is born and settled, we'll still go on cases."

"Good idea," Mary chimed in suddenly. Molly turned to see her leaning against the doorway. "It's a Saturday, and he's probably not doing anything. Why don't you take a small case?"

John hesitated before answering. "You think that's alright? You could go into la-"

"John, take a case," Mary cut in forcefully.

A high-pitched chime echoed through the room. John dug around in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "It's Greg. He says that Sherlock's down at the Yard now."

"Perfect," Mary said. "You should go. Now."

John finished his coffee and left the kitchen, presumably to get ready to meet Sherlock. Molly sighed softly, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Of course she knew that Sherlock didn't just want his friend back. He wasn't just lonely. He was pining after John, and it frustrated Molly to no end.

"How is he?" Mary asked, pulling Molly out of her thoughts. She had another mug in her hand. "Sherlock, I mean." She poured coffee into it and handed it to Molly.

"Oh, t-thanks," Molly stuttered, accepting the cup. "He's actually got a new flat mate."

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"A women by the name of Irene Adler."

"He's not just using her like he was using Janine?"

Molly shook her head. "No. His brother Mycroft actually set it up. Mycroft needs to be able to watch her. She's an ex-dominatrix, who apparently nearly compromised the entire nation a few years ago."

Mary laughed pleasantly. "Well, she sounds very capable then."

"She does like Sherlock," Molly said, swallowing her jealousy. "I think it will be good for him."

The front door opened and closed. "He's off then," Mary said. "Molly, tell me the truth." She hesitated for a moment. "Is Sherlock in love with John?"

Molly turned away from the other woman and nodded. "Yes. But he will never tell him. He really does like you, Mary. I promise."

"That's not what I was worried about," Mary replied softly.

"We've got to help him."

Mary's eyes lit up suddenly. "I'll invite him to dinner," she said excitedly. "And Irene. Oh, and you too. If Mycroft is playing matchmaker, then we ought to help him."

Molly smiled. "That sounds lovely."

* * *

Irene woke with a start, her eyes darting quickly around the room and taking in her surroundings. For a disorienting moment, she had no idea where she was. As the events of the previous day came rushing back to her, her heart rate and breathing settled back to normal.

She hopped out of her bed and walked down the hall. The floor was cold against her bare feet as she walked down the stairs. She could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. Spying a robe draped across the couch, Irene grabbed it and put it on. She walked into to the kitchen, expecting to see Sherlock.

Instead, his older brother had made himself at home. "Coffee, Ms. Adler?" he asked politely, handing her a mug.

She accepted the cup gratefully and took a sip. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Iceman?"

Mycroft shifted, leaning against his umbrella. The movement reminded Irene of Jiminy Cricket, which amused her to no end seeing how different Mycroft was from the fairy-tale cricket. "Do you remember a certain consulting criminal?" he asked.

"Didn't he put a bullet through his head?" Irene asked.

"Apparently not," Mycroft replied, smiling grimly.

Irene took a long sip as she scrutinized him, trying to deduce the reason for his presence. As always, the Iceman was unreadable. "So?" she asked. "What's this got to do with me, Jiminy?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Myrcroft's face at the nickname. Irene smiled gleefully, knowing that she had finally gotten him to show an emotion. "You knew him," Mycroft simply stated. "Perhaps you can help us find him."

Irene set the now empty mug on the counter. "How?" she asked.

"Sherlock called me a few moments ago. He said that the case he is on was related. I want you to come down to see what you can find. Though I loathe to admit it, James Moriarty is a genius, and beating him won't be easy."

"And you want me down at the crime scene so Sherlock will see just how useful I am and perhaps consider me as a replacement when John is unavailable," Irene added, smirking. "Mycroft the matchmaker. Imagine that."

Do you deny that you would be good for my brother?" Mycroft asked.

Irene examined his face closely. To the untrained eye, it was completely blank, but Irene could pick up the subtle faith that rested in his eyes. "He loves John," Irene said. "I don't know if I can make him stop, but I promise you that I will take care of your brother to the best of my ability."

"Let's go solve a crime then, Ms. Adler."

* * *

"Finally," Sherlock commented as the long, black car pulled up along the street. He stared down the long lath across the yard at the open gate. The door swung in the wind as if welcoming the arrival of his brother.

"You called Mycroft?" John asked in amazement.

Sherlock turned his intense gaze onto John. "I will not make the mistake of facing Moriarty alone again."

John shifted, obviously uncomfortable with Sherlock's intense stare, but he smiled. Sherlock felt his own mouth smile, but he wasn't paying much attention. "As a wise man once told me, friends protect people," he added.

John's eyes narrowed, confused and focused. In annoyance, Sherlock turned to see what had distracted him. "Is that..." John trailed off.

By Mycroft's side was Irene Adler. He almost didn't recognize her in her jeans, but she still had that same air of elegance about her as she crossed the yard. "Mycroft must have thought she could help us find Moriarty, given her experience with him."

"Hang on," John said. "She's supposed to be dead. Mycroft said it would take you- oh."

Sherlock smirked at his friend. "And fool him I did. Until recently, of course, when her mother's funeral forced her to come out of hiding."

"And Mycroft is okay with that?"

"So long as she stays with me. Apparently, she's given up her business. It was too dangerous, and she's decided that she rather likes being alive."

John chuckled, causing Sherlock to smile again. There was something special about the way John chuckled that Sherlock loved. For a second, he considered telling him, but he decided against it. The doctor could never know Sherlock's feelings for him. It was a secret Sherlock was prepared to take to his grave.

"Who's that with Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, coming to stand next to Sherlock.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock replied. "My new flatmate."

"Where's the body?" Mycroft asked without preamble, finally joining them.

"Inside," Sherlock replied, nodding towards the house.

Lestrade led the crew past the police tape and into the victim's living room, where he lay dead. It didn't take a genius to see that he had been shot in the head, but Sherlock had been the only one to identify the killer. It had been obvious, and he was still in shock that the police had missed it completely.

"He was holding this in his hand," Sherlock replied, pulling the crumpled note from his pocket.

"More like hanging onto it for dear life," Mycroft mumbled as he smoothed it out and read.

_To whoever it may concern,_

_I know that I am about to die. I got involved with the wrong person, and I'm about to pay the ultimate price. I don't have much time, but I need somebody to know what happened to me. I am a wealthy man, and a few months ago, something of great value was taken from me. I offered a great price to Mr. Moriarty, consulting criminal, to help me steal it back. However, it wasn't money he wanted in return. It was a favor. Recklessly, I agreed to it. However, just hours ago, he came to collect. What he wants is something I will never do. He wants-_

Mycroft handed the note to Lestrade. "I don't suppose there is a second page?" he asked.

"There is," Sherlock answered.

"Where is it, Irene?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Of course his brother knew where it was, so why ask Irene? He frowned as he watched her approach the body and kneel. Her eyes studied his face for a few minutes, then moved to his shirt. She checked his pockets before continuing her search. When she finally got to his feet, she announced, "It's in his shoe."

With a nod of approval from Sherlock, Lestrade knelt next to Irene and removed the dead man's shoe. Just as she said, there was another piece of paper there. He smoothed it as best he could and began reading.

-_me to kill a homeless man. Something about destroying a network. Mr. Moriarty would do it himself, but he knows that Sherlock Holmes will be able to trace it back to him. He gave me a slow acting poison, which I swallowed since I am about to die anyways. Please, Mr. Holmes, i you are reading this, you have to stop Mr. Moriarty._

_-Justin Redman_

Sally Donavan burst into the room with Molly Hooper in tow. "I brought her, Sherlock," Sally announced.

"Thank you, Sergeant Donavan," Sherlock replied.

Molly straightened her scarf and huffed in annoyance. "You could have called me, you know. What do you need?"

"We're going to move Mr. Redman to the morgue. Molly, you are the only pathologist I trust to do this autopsy. I need to know what poison he took."

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh. Right. Of course," she stuttered. "You still could have just called."

Beside him, John was chuckling again. Sherlock focused on the sound, trying to commit it to memory. If he should ever be unable to remember John's chuckle, he didn't know what he would do with himself.

* * *

Molly had been examining the contents of his stomach for about a half hour. She kept switching between slides, examining everything closely under her microscope and scribbling on a piece of paper. As he watched, Mycroft wondered why Sherlock wasn't doing it himself.

His brother was back at the victim's house now, trying to deduce where Moriarty went. John and Irene had gone with him, as well as the police. Only Molly and Mycroft remained in the morgue.

"Aha," Molly said softly into the microscope. "I found you."

Mycroft hopped off the stool where he sat and leaned over to look over Molly's shoulder. "Dimethylmercury," she explained. "I'm sure you know what that is."

He nodded. "Mr. Redman wasn't lying when he said it was slow acting. It's also extremely powerful."

Molly nodded, drumming her fingers against the table. "If Moriarty has this, it may already be too late for his next victim."

"May I?" Mycroft asked, gesturing towards the microscope.

"Oh, of course," Molly agreed, stepping away.

Mycroft gazed down through the lens at the victim's stomach sample. He could indeed see traces of dimethylmercury, but he wondered how long it would have taken him to find it had he not known what to look for. "Impressive find, Ms. Hooper," he said.

"Er, thanks." Mycroft looked up to see her blushing slightly. "Should we call Sherlock?"

"He'll be back soon enough," he replied. "Are you hungry, Ms. Hooper?"

"Oh, just Molly's fine," she said, flustered. "Uh, yes, a little bit."

"Thought you might be," Mycroft said, just as Anthea opened the door and walked in. She set two paper bags in front of him. "Thank you, Anthea."

"You had her bring takeout," Molly said. "Thank you."

Anthea disappeared without a word. Mycroft tried to brush it off, but the disappointment must have shown because Molly asked, "You two don't talk much? I mean, you aren't friends?"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Anthea is my assistant and nothing more."

The pathologist nodded in understanding. "Here, we should go to the lunch room," she said, motioning for Mycroft to follow, which he did. It wasn't far from where they were working; just around the corner. The room was empty. Mycroft say down at the nearest table and set the takeout down. He could smell the Chinese food through the bag. Ever since he was a kid, Chinese had been his favorite.

Molly sat across from him and began to eat. "Do you have any friends?" she asked.

"Besides Sherlock, no," he answered.

"Well, i-if you'd like, er, I could, um, be your friend. If you want," Molly stuttered.

Mycroft studied her face for a minute before smiling slightly. That emptiness inside of him was gone. Instead, he felt an odd warmth in his stomach. "Thank you, Molly."


	4. Dimethylmercury

Despite the pain he felt, Sherlock could not bring himself to hate Mary. He tried, but he just couldn't hate the women who made John smile again after his supposed death. Perhaps missing John would be easier if he could hate her. At least then he would be able to blame somebody besides himself.

As it was now, he was happy to see Mary, even if she did come to his flat without John. He studied her warm smile and eyes and marveled that she could be so happy to see him. Being an ex-assassin, she had sharp observational skills. She had to know how Sherlock felt about John. In fact, it seemed that everyone except John knew.

"I know it's a little mundane," Mary began, "but I would like to invite you and Ms. Adler over for dinner tomorrow."

She was right; it was mundane. However, Sherlock jumped on the chance to see John. "I would love to come," he answered.

From her position on Sherlock's couch, Mary smiled. She seemed surprised, Sherlock noted, that he had agreed to come so readily. She placed her hands on her heavily pregnant stomach and sighed contentedly. "John will be happy to see you," she said.

At the mention of John's name (and happiness), Sherlock felt his heart flutter in his chest. He shook his head, reminding himself that John was only a friend, and that was all he ever would be. In fact, he was very lucky to even have that.

Mary gasped, drawing Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Did she kick?" he asked, gesturing towards her stomach.

"Yes," Mary replied, smiling even wider.

"Have you decided on a name?" he asked. Deciding that he was tired of standing, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

"We were thinking Joan," she replied. "Joan Harriet Watson."

"Joan Watson," Sherlock repeated with a smile.

The bathroom door swung open, and Irene Adler emerged from the hallway. Her wet hair was thrown up in a bun, and she was clothed in a silky, white dress and Sherlock's robe. Sherlock was thankful that she was wearing anything at all. "You didn't tell me you were having company," she commented, pulling the robe tighter around her. "I'm Irene Adler."

Mary took her outstretched hand. "Mary Watson," she replied. "And I really should be leaving now, but it was so nice to meet you."

Irene helped Mary stand and put her jacket back on. As soon as Mary was gone, Sherlock began reviewing the information Molly had given him. "Irene, have you ever heard of dimethylmercury?"

"Ah, yes," Irene replied as she sat next to him. "Is this about that case from this morning?"

Sherlock nodded and handed her Molly's findings. She scanned it quickly with a worried expression. "We may already be too late," she said.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty wanted Redman to poison the members of my homeless network, so now he will find someone else to do it."

"There's one other thing I'm worried about though," Irene said. "Why didn't Moriarty get rid of the note?"

Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin and searched his memory. The note had been fairly easy for Sherlock to find, so surely Moriarty would have noticed it too.

"Because he left in a hurry," Sherlock answered. It was the only thing that made sense. Though he hadn't noticed at the time, he could remember an open window. Moriarty must have snuck out through there.

"What scared him off?" she asked. "Oh, the police must have been close by. The body was pretty freshly dead when I got there with Mycroft. He must have heard them and fled."

Sherlock gave her a smile of astonishment. It was a rare moment when a smile was forced out of him by surprise. He resisted the urge to hug her for her brilliance. "Exactly," he answered.

"Wait, then that means he knows that we know what his plan is," Irene said, suddenly worried again.

"Maybe," Sherlock replied. "But he may not count on us being able to figure it out. We may yet still have surprise on our side."

Irene placed Molly's papers on the coffee table and sighed. "I forgot just how malicious that man is," she said. "Have you warned the homeless network?"

"I have," Sherlock replied with a nod. "How would you like to have dinner with the Watsons tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject.

Irene smiled brightly. "I'd love too."

* * *

Molly Hooper gave a long-suffering sigh as she flopped onto her couch. It wasn't long before Toby jumped onto her stomach and curled up. She reached her hand out to stroke his soft, brown fur. The tabby purred in contentment.

From her pocket, Molly's phone started to vibrate. She sat up to reach it, causing Toby to mew in protest. The number was unfamiliar, but Molly answered it anyways.

"Hello?"

"Hi Molly," a familiar female voice replied from the other end. "It's me, Mary Watson."

"Oh, hi Mary!" Molly exclaimed.

"I just wanted to let you know that we are on for dinner tomorrow night. Could you show up around six?"

"Of course," Molly answered.

"Oh, and Sherlock just called, insisting that I invite Mycroft as well."

"The two Holmes brothers over for dinner? I hope that's not a disaster," Molly joked.

Mary laughed pleasantly. The two women continued to talk for a few minutes before saying their goodbyes and hanging up.

As she set her phone down on the counter, Molly realized that she was smiling brightly. She shook her head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, about to have dinner with the world's only consulting detective, his assistant, an ex-assassin, an ex-dominatrix, and a government official, and she was happy about it.

Even the bitter sting of jealousy was absent, Molly noted with pleasure. It had been so long since she had had a nice dinner with friends, and even her unrequited love for Sherlock couldn't ruin this.

Molly's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She quickly straightened her clothes and hair before opening it. "Oh, M-Mycroft," she stammered in surprise when she saw the man standing outside. "W-what can I do for you?"

"Sherlock has a mission for us," Mycroft answered with a nod towards his car.

Molly suppressed a groan as she closed the door and followed Mycroft. "What does he want?" she asked.

"Blood tests," Mycroft answered. He held the car door open for Molly, who quickly crawled inside. He sat next to her, all while staring at her. Molly suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze and pulled at her sweater nervously. "To Saint Bart's," he told the driver.

"Is this a-about the homeless network?" Molly asked.

Mycroft smiled and answered, "Yes. He wants us to look for Moriarty's poison to see if anyone's been infected."

"It will be difficult," Molly replied. "You only need a minuscule dose to be lethal. Even if we do find any, I'm not even sure if treatment would work."

"Well, we have to try."

* * *

Hours later, every homeless person had left the hospital, and Molly Hooper sat with a microscope and a blood sample from each one.

Mycroft handed her the first sample labeled Stephen. The pathologist examined it, writing notes down every few minutes. "Well, a-as far as I c-can tell, he's clean."

As she checked more blood, she continued to stutter her results to Mycroft. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on studying her. It was obvious that something about his presence made her nervous, but he had no idea why she should be frightened. She was an expert pathologist, and besides that, she was his friend now. What was there to be afraid of?

Molly's startled gasp pulled him out of his thoughts and into a panic as she stood quickly, knocking the stool over. She clasped her hand over her mouth and backed away slowly. "Molly, what is wrong?" Mycroft asked, the panic creeping into his voice.

"Wasn't Eve that little girl?" Molly asked.

"Seven years old. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Freckles," Mycroft replied.

Molly's eyes widened in horror as she removed her trembling hand from her face. "She's got it," she whispered.

Mycroft nearly sprinted around the table to look into the microscope. A minute of searching confirmed what Molly had told him. Young Eve was infected, and he had no idea how to stop it.

"What do we do?" Molly asked. Her voice shook, and a small tear snaked down her cheek.

Mycroft pulled her into an awkward hug as she struggled to reign in her emotions. For once, Mycroft wished he knew how to comfort people. All he could do was hold her as she shook, biting down hard into her lip. Another tear fell and trailed down her other cheek. Without thinking, he reached to wipe it away.

Every muscle in Molly's body tensed as his finger moved against her cheek. He froze, still touching her face, worried that he had done something wrong. She relaxed, however, and Mycroft gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her hair.

"I'm sorry," Molly finally said, pulling away.

"Don't be," Mycroft murmured.

Without another word, Molly straightened the stool and continued to look through the blood samples. Mycroft sat across from her and watched in fascination. Her hands continued to shake as she moved between samples. Acting on instinct, Mycroft clasped the hand that had bern writing, causing Molly to still. She smiled gratefully as she continued working.

After what felt like hours, Molly announced, "The rest look clean."

Mycroft nodded in response and removed his hand. The pathologist smiled at him, causing his heart to ache. He had built up walls so high that he wasn't sure if he was ever going to be capable of letting her in.

* * *

Life on the run had turned Irene Adler into a very light sleeper. After hearing the slightest creak coming from downstairs, her eyes shot open. She held her breath, listening. Another slight creak confirmed that somebody was indeed in the flat.

Irene tried to tell herself that it was just Sherlock, but something felt off. As silently as she could, she crossed her room and cracked open the door. No lights were on in the flat.

Quietly, Irene slipped into the hallway and tiptoed down the stairs. She squinted into the dark and strained her ears. The sounds seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Still on her toes, she walked forward.

A large hand suddenly clamped over her mouth, and a meaty arm snaked around her waist. Irene thrashed, but the stranger held her tight. She cried out as best she could, hoping the muffled sounds would wake Sherlock.

She kicked back, trying to strike his leg, but that only caused him to grip her harder. Her movements, however, did make him stumble into the wall. His arm around her waist loosened just enough for Irene to free her pined arm and throw her elbow into his stomach.

Irene spun around to face her attacker. She took in his brown eyes gleaming with malice, his large hands wrapped around his stomach, and the sharp, angular edges of his face. With a swift movement of her fist, she knocked his head into the wall. His eyes closed as he fell over at her feet.

"Sherlock!" Irene shouted. She knelt down to check the man's pulse. As she reached for his neck, his hand shot out and caught her wrist. Irene cried out as he twisted it painfully.

Footsteps thundered through the hall. The intruder's eyes widened in fear. He scrambled away from Irene and out the door just as Sherlock came flying into the room.

"Irene!" he cried out, rushing to kneel down next to her. She cradled her wrist close to her chest. When Sherlock reached his hand out, she let him take it, hissing when he pressed down. "Just a sprain. Who was that?"

"I don't know," Irene answered, breathing heavily. "Probably one of Moriarty's men."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know that either."

Sherlock scowled at the wall. "I don't like not knowing."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a bandage from the bathroom. Gently, he took Irene's injured wrist and wrapped the bandage around tight. Irene was amazed that a man so loud and hyper could be so delicate and gentle also. Taking her other hand, he helped her to stand.

Sherlock led Irene to the kitchen, where he retrieved a plastic bag and filled it with ice. He wrapped a towel around it and handed it to her. "Keep this on your wrist."

Irene complied, pressing the cold towel to her sprain. "What do we do now?" she asked.

"I suppose we should notify Lestrade," he mused. "We should also remain on high alert, especially at night."

"What if we got a guard dog?" Irene suggested.

"What would we need that for?" Sherlock asked with a pout.

"Sherlock, you sleep like the dead!" Irene exclaimed.

The consulting detective sighed before agreeing. "Alright. But consult Ms. Hudson first."


	5. The First Signs Of Falling

**AN: **Sorry it took so long to get this up. This chapter for some reason did not want to be written. Anyways, I did some research on the medical bits, but since I'm not an expert, I'm sorry if I completely screwed it up.

* * *

Young Eve was a small child, causing her to look even younger. Her green eyes held more innocence than Molly would've thought possible for a poisoned girl. Her smile was equally bright. Molly marveled at her bravery.

Mycroft had closed off a hospital room to allow Eve and her mother to meet with Molly. The pathologist straightened her back and put on her best fake smile. Truth to be told, Molly was terrified.

"You can cure her, right?" Eve's mother, Alyson, asked Molly.

"I believe that I can," Molly answered.

Alyson embraced Molly, and the pathologist could feel the mother's shaking. "Thank you," she whispered before letting go. "I don't know what we would do without you. We just can't afford a hospital bill."

The bottle of pills felt heavy in Molly's pocket. Given how dangerous what she was about to do could be, she wondered how Mycroft was able to pull so many strings to get her the correct treatment and allow her to administer it.

She turned to her silent companion, who gave her an encouraging smile. Mycroft leaned against the door, arms folded, observing. The man's piercing eyes were starting to unnerve her less as she got used to them. Molly returned the smile before turning to Eve.

The child was sitting on the hospital bed. Her little legs were swinging under it as she grinned up at Molly. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Chelation therapy," Molly answered nervously, her voice faltering. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bottle. "I have in here DMSA pills. I'm going to give you a small amount. Next week, we're going to meet again, and I'm going to take another blood sample."

"This will cure me?" Eve asked.

"Y-yes, it sh-should," Molly replied. She swallowed hard, hoping to swallow her stuttering.

Molly measured out the DMSA and placed the amount in Eve's hand. The child swallowed it, then beamed up at Molly. "Thank you," she said.

"Thank you so much," Alyson added. "You are our hero."

Molly blushed uncomfortably. Young Eve hopped off of the bed and hugged her. Awkwardly, Molly patted her back. The girl pulled away and ran to grab her mother's hand. Molly's fingers twitched as she watched. Sometimes, Molly was fine, but other times she was painfully aware of how lonely she was.

Mycroft opened the door to let Alyson and her daughter out. As they left, he closed the door behind them and turned his piercing gaze to Molly. Instead of fidgeting uncomfortably like she might have a few days ago, she met his gaze and smiled.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," Molly replied, nodding. "But do you think she's alright?"

"I do," Mycroft answered.

The surety of Mycroft's answer comforted her. Molly was still afraid that she would fail, but if someone like Mycroft believed in her, then she must be doing alright.

"Would you like to get lunch somewhere?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

Molly blinked in surprise. "Er, yes. I would love too."

* * *

Having the police at the flat made Irene uneasy, so she snuck out for a walk. She was eager to really explore London again, without fearing the government finding her. Although the urge to look over her shoulder was still there, Irene was more relaxed walking outside than she had been in a while.

Irene had been very happy in Portugal, but there was always something inside of her that missed England. As she walked around, Irene was beginning to wonder if it was really London that she had missed. It was a great city, and Irene loved it, but as she refamiliarized herself with the place, it was becoming clear why she had missed it.

She had missed Sherlock. Irene had been infatuated since they met, but she wasn't sure when she had fallen in love with the man. The feeling she had towards Sherlock was different than anything she had ever felt towards anyone before. She had looked at other people before and known that she wanted to have them, but when she looked at Sherlock, all she wanted was to hold him.

Now that she had settled down, and now that it was safe, there was nothing that Irene wanted more than to spend the rest of her life with Sherlock. Unfortunately for her, there was nothing that Sherlock wanted more than to spend the rest of his life with John.

At that thought, Irene shoved her fists into her pockets and walked faster. Jealousy was an unfamiliar emotion to her. In her old life, if she wanted somebody, she had them. Maybe Sherlock was right, and love was a weakness. It definitely made Irene feel week.

She entered a small cafe, hoping some coffee would clear her head. The line was short, and Irene pretty much walked right up to the counter. She ordered a cappuccino and began to drink. The warm coffee felt good on her throat as she let herself relax.

To Irene's surprise, as she glanced around the cafe, she spotted Mycroft and Molly at a table near the window, deep in conversation. Irene smiled to herself. It seemed that Sherlock's plan to push them together was working.

Molly caught Irene's eye and smiled warmly. Irene smiled and nodded in greeting. The pathologist turned back to the Iceman, eyes alight. That unfamiliar jealous pang struck Irene's stomach again, and she sighed internally.

Irene finished her cappuccino and left the cafe. She began walking back to Baker Street, sure that the police would be done. Now that her mother was gone, her entire world was there in 221B.

* * *

"Who's that?" Mycroft asked, glancing behind him.

"Irene Adler," Molly answered. "She's just stopped for a quick drink."

Mycroft nodded absently. His entire focus was on the women in front of him. Somehow, she had caught his attention, and was continuing to surprise him with her kind heart. Molly Hooper, who was his only friend in the world after Sherlock, was looking at him with shining eyes as she ate her sandwich.

"How is she settling?" she asked.

"Wonderfully," Mycroft answered. "Ms. Adler is an excellent match for Sherlock."

Though Molly did her best to hide it, Mycroft could still see the jealousy in her eyes as he spoke. For the first time, Mycroft wondered what it would be like to have someone look at him in that way. His lonely heart ached from within his chest.

"Well, I'm happy that he's happy," Molly replied, smiling just a little too much. "Forgive me if I'm intruding, but the two of you don't seem to be very close"

"No, not anymore," Mycroft answered sadly. "I'm afraid that I didn't realize what a wonderful gift having a brother was until much too late."

Molly gazed at him oddly. The look was almost sympathetic. Mycroft didn't think he had ever had someone's sympathy in his life.

"I'm glad you have each other now," Molly answered.

As Molly continued to talk, Mycroft noted the absence of a nervous stutter. He was relieved that Molly seemed more comfortable in his presence than she had been the other day. He was starting to grow fond of the mousy pathologist.

Molly's face was an open book. Her expressions were alight as emotion danced across her face. She talked about her work mostly, which Mycroft assumed would scare most people away. He, however, found it fascinating. The passion that lit Molly's eyes was even more fascinating.

"Sorry, I'm probably rambling," Molly said.

"Not at all," Mycroft encouraged. "Your work is very interesting."

Molly snorted. "Pathology? Really?"

Mycroft nodded honestly. Molly narrowed her eyes doubtfully at him. "Well, anyways, I'm curious about what you do. Besides all that secret government stuff I mean.

"I pretty much spend every waking minute working, especially now that our little friend has come back and seems intent on watching the world fall at his feet."

"Have you figured out how he faked his death yet?" Molly asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Perhaps we should have had a professional such as yourself examine the body."

The pathologist blushed deeply. "I'm not... Er, I mean, I guess I am but..." Molly struggled for words. It was charming to watch, but also confusing.

"Do not be so quick to discredit your abilities. You were the only pathologist my brother trusted, after all."

Suddenly, Mycroft could see Sherlock's actions for what they really were: an attempt to set him up. The man chuckled inwardly at his brother. He supposed it had worked. Molly was now his friend.

As Molly smiled hesitantly, a feeling awoke in Mycroft's chest which he thought had been long dead. It had been awhile, but he still recognized the first signs of falling.

* * *

Sherlock had spent all day thinking about dinner. Irene had tried to distract him, but it was no use. All Sherlock wanted to think about was John.

He missed the old days before he jumped off a building more than words could express. He wanted John just to be his again, but as he sat at John's table, he was reminded that John had a family now that didn't include him.

When John sat in the chair next to him, the figurative butterflies fluttered around his stomach. His hand was resting on the table, and Sherlock longed to reach out and grab it. He imagined that it would feel very warm, and that their fingers would fit perfectly together. Of course they would. After all, everything about John fit perfectly into Sherlock's life.

"How are things going with the Moriarty case?" John asked.

"Still no sign of him," Sherlock answered. "But I'll find him soon."

"I certainly hope so," Mary replied.

As she spoke, John instantly turned his warm eyes towards her. Love was etched plain to see in his face. He smiled, and Sherlock felt a weight drop into his stomach. The great detective sighed slowly and wondered why he was cursed to love a man who would never love him back.

Sherlock forced his attention away to focus on his brother. He was sitting across from him at the table, next to Molly. Mycroft glanced at the pathologist whenever she wasn't looking. Sherlock grinned, satisfied. He knew Molly would be able to bring his brother out of the depression he seemed to be in.

"Only one of the homeless was infected, but Molly is working on chelation therapy with her," Mycroft added.

Molly glanced up at him and smiled. "I wouldn't have been able to help if Mycroft hadn't used his government interference."

Sherlock smirked at the exchange. At least one thing was going right in his life.

"The meal is wonderful," Irene piped up from next to him. "Who cooked?"

The dinner laid out on the table was one of the best Sherlock had had in a long time. He hadn't really noticed until today that his eating habits had changed. He was eating even less. Without John there to remind him, eating lost a lot of purpose.

"We both did," Mary answered.

Sherlock spooned roasted vegetables into his mouth and tried to pretend that he wasn't jealous. Irene, as if able to sense the change in his mood, reached under the table and squeezed his hand. Before she could move away, Sherlock grabbed it and held it. The women ducked her head in an attempt to hide her smile, but Sherlock saw it. Her hand was as warm as he imagined John's to be, and while the slender fingers felt different to hold, it was still a nice feeling.

Sherlock had no idea why he did it. He still loved John and only John. He supposed that he was just reaching out for comfort. Whatever the reason, he was glad that Irene was there.

"So, how is Ms. Hudson?" John asked.

"She's fine, though I suspect she will have a heart attack when Irene brings a dog into the flat," Sherlock replied with a grin aimed at Irene.

"I'll ask her first!" Irene exclaimed defensively.

"No you won't," Sherlock replied.

Mary laughed at the pair. "I've been telling John that a dog would be good for Joan when she's a little older."

"Did you know Sherlock had a dog growing up?" Mycroft cut in.

"No," answered John and Irene simultaneously.

"His name was Redbeard," Sherlock supplied. The genius had many fond memories of the dog. He had always found it hard to make friends as a child, and Redbeard was the best one he had.

"I fostered dogs when I was living in Portugal," Irene stated. "I really love them. But I was thinking that our flat could benefit from a guard dog after it was broken into last night."

Four pairs of concerned eyes found there way to Sherlock and Irene. "Who was it?" John demanded, frowning worriedly.

"One of Moriarty's men, we believe," Sherlock answered.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked.

"Irene sprained her wrist fighting him off, but that is the extent of the damage."

John, whom Sherlock was keeping in his peripheral vision the entire time, stared at Irene with newfound awe and respect. It hadn't occurred to Sherlock that fighting off the intruder had been anything out of the ordinary, but as he reflected on it, he realized just how brave Irene was. That was good. If Irene was going to stay, she needed to be brave, just like John.

The ex-dominatrix's hand was still in Sherlock's. It was starting to feel hot, so he let it go. Irene met his eyes and smiled brightly, and Sherlock realized that he was happier than he had been in a long time.


	6. The Missing Woman

Weeks passed, and the world seemed to grow quiet. Moriarty had dropped off the grid completely, and even London's ordinary criminals were too preoccupied to be out committing murders. The stillness was driving Sherlock mad, and in turn, Irene. The detective would slave away at his violin for hours on end, sometimes in the middle of the night. When he wasn't doing that, he was experimenting on odd body parts that he found in the morgue.

"I need a case," he announced one morning as he strode into the sitting room.

Irene was stretched out on the couch, trying to read the newspaper. With the antsy detective running around the place, it was getting hard to concentrate on anything. With a sigh, she tossed it on to the table and moved her legs so that Sherlock could sit. "We could try to find Moriairty," she suggested, not for the first time.

As expected, Sherlock shook his head. "No, he's like a ghost. He needs to show himself again."

"Well, you could come with me to the dog shelter."

"You still haven't figured out how to get Ms. Hudson's approval, though I'm sure it's only a matter of time before you win her over."

"What about John's blog?" Irene asked.

"John's much too busy with the upcoming baby to take a case."

Irene groaned and rubbed her face with her hands. Truth be told, she was starting to get a little bored herself. "Fine then. Take a case without him."

It was the first time she had suggested that, and Sherlock turned to look at her in shock. "Get a case from John's blog without John?" he asked.

"That's what I just said." Irene pulled the computer off the table and turned it on. As she pulled up John's blog, Sherlock watched uncomfortably. "How about this one? There's a man who thinks his wife is a spy because she keeps disappearing for hours and has no real explanation for where she's been."

"She's having an affair," Sherlock answered quickly.

"Or she could be a spy," Irene grumbled under her breath. It was obvious that nothing would catch Sherlock's interest, so she closed the laptop and set it back on the table.

Before Irene could suggest anything else, the doorbell rang. Sherlock's head shot up, and he grinned. "Client," he explained eagerly. He leapt up from the couch and bounded toward the door.

Irene sighed with relief. She was thankful that there would finally be something to do, and that she had gotten dressed that morning. She ran her fingers through her hair quickly to smooth out the knots.

Sherlock reentered the room with a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was tall and scrawny, and he hunched over nervously. Irene smiled, hoping to ease his tension.

The stranger sat in the chair across from the couch, and Sherlock took his place next to her. The man eyed the pair nervously, as if trying to decide wether to stay or run.

"I'm Irene, and this is Sherlock, though I'm sure you already knew that," Irene said. "Why don't you tell us why you're here?"

The man nodded and cleared his throat. "My name is Samuel Hart. About two weeks ago, my girlfriend started acting funny."

Samuel paused, biting at his lip anxiously. "Funny how?" Irene prompted.

"She was seeing things. She started talking about her mother coming to visit. Except, her mother's been dead for nearly nine years now. Two days ago, I woke up to a note that she had gone to meet her mother. I assumed that she would come home later that day, but she didn't. I spent all of yesterday searching for her, but I can't find her."

"So why come to us?" Sherlock asked. "Why not go to the police?"

When Samuel didn't answer right away, Irene spoke up. "Well, he probably doesn't want them thinking that she's crazy."

"Fair enough," Sherlock stated. "But you are aware that this isn't normal behavior, correct?"

"Sherlock," Irene hissed under her breath. "Not now."

"He needs to be prepared for the worst," Sherlock insisted.

"And that is?" Irene asked.

"That when we find her, she'll be high."

"Sherlock!" Irene hissed.

"No, it's alright," Samuel insisted. "As soon as I find her, I'm going to get her help. No matter what's going on. We're going to work it out."

"Perhaps we should head over to your place?" Irene suggested. "Sherlock may be able to find a lead there."

* * *

From the corner of her eye, Molly could see a young, blonde girl on the park swing. She couldn't resist glancing at her. It wasn't Eve, but she looked a lot like her.

Molly smiled slightly to herself. She had been doubtful, but young Eve was going to be okay thanks to the quick treatment she received. She hadn't seen the girl since, even though she looked for her everywhere she went. Though she knew chances were slim that she would run into the child, she couldn't help herself.

From the moment Molly had seen the poison in her blood sample, her maternal instincts had kicked in. She wanted to protect the child, and even though she was safe from mercury poisoning, Molly worried knowing that she was on the streets and still possibly a target for criminal mastermind Moriarty.

Absentmindedly, Molly's hands found there way to her stomach as she continued to walk. As she realized what she was doing, a pang of loneliness struck her. She had never told anybody, but more than anything else, she wanted to be a mother. However, as each day dragged by, the lonely pathologist felt as if her chances were growing smaller.

With her mood ruined, Molly turned down the street to head back home. She had no idea what she would do for the rest of the day. Perhaps she would spend it sulking. She did an awful lot of that these days.

As soon as she turned the corner, Molly could feel that something was off. The air surrounding her street seemed to be tense. Molly quickened her stride to her flat. The door was open. Her heart rate sped up as she approached it. She strained her ears, but she couldn't here anything coming from inside. It had been about an hour since she left. The intruder was probably long gone, she figured.

Molly pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed Lestrade's number as she stepped inside her flat. "Molly? What can I do for you?" came the voice from the other end.

"My flat's been broken into," Molly answered. "I think the intruder is gone now though."

"You think?" Lestrade asked, incredulous. "Molly, don't do anything. I'll be over there in five minutes."

"Alright," she replied. She moved through the flat, checking to see if anything was missing. "It looks like everything is still in place. This is rea-"

A large hand knocked into the back of Molly's head, knocking the phone out of her hand. She turned to face her attacker as it went clattering across the floor. The intruder was a large, menacing man. Molly gasped as he met his brown eyes that seemed to jut out of his bony face. The malice held there was enough to make Molly freeze.

Molly didn't see that his meaty paw was wrapped around a baseball bat until it collided with the side of her face and everything turned black.

* * *

As Sherlock scanned the flat, he could feel the life returning to him. He took in every detail, deducing as much as he could about the women he was supposed to find. "Did you check with her sister?" Sherlock asked.

"I never said she had a sister," Samuel stated, confused.

"You didn't need to," Sherlock explained, eyeing the picture on the desk.

"I did check. She's not there."

"Yes, he really is as good as they say," Irene informed the client.

Sherlock smiled slightly as he began digging through papers. "Melinda is very organized. Hardly the type to spontaneously disappear. She shouldn't be too hard to find."

Sherlock moved deeper into the flat, searching for any sort of disturbance. Melinda was organized, but not obsessive. There was no sign of drugs. Melinda seemed ordinary on every level.

"Did you check her computer?" Irene supplied. Sherlock turned to see her already turning the laptop on from her place on the couch. Eagerly, he sat beside her and watched. "Do you know her password?" she asked.

Samuel shook his head. "I never asked; she never told."

"Like I said, she's very organized. Are there any important dates? Perhaps her birthday?" Sherlock asked.

"Her birthday is November thirteenth," Samuel answered.

Irene typed 1-1-1-3 into the computer. A second later, Melinda's desktop was on the screen. "Nice," she commented. She opened Melinda's emails and tilted the screen to show Sherlock. "Look at this."

Sherlock immediately zoned in on an email sent from a doctor. He reached over to the mousepad and opened it.

_Melinda,_

_Tuesday at 10:00 would be wonderful. I will see you then. Feel free to email me if you have any problems._

_Dr. Miner_

"Do you know who Dr. Miner is?" Sherlock asked.

Samuel shook his head again. "Never heard of her."

"She's a psychiatrist. Melinda is schizophrenic."

"What? How do you know that?" Samuel asked.

"He deduced," Irene answered for Sherlock. "He does that a lot."

Sherlock scanned through the rest of Melinda's email. "She's staying with her sister."

"How'd you figure that?" Irene asked.

"They've been corresponding a lot. Melinda thinks somebody's trying to kill her. Colette suggests that she stays with her until they can figure it out."

"But Colette said that she hadn't seen Melinda," Samuel protested.

"She lied," Sherlock replied. "Go over there. That's where she'll be."

"Are you sure?" Samuel asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, almost offended.

"I've never seen him be wrong before," Irene added.

Samuel nodded. "Alright. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Miss...?"

"Adler," Irene supplied.

"Miss Adler. Thank you."

Sherlock opened the door and let himself out of the flat with Irene following behind. Once the door was closed and they were almost to the street, Irene asked, "Do you think she's okay?"

"I think she will be," Sherlock answered. He raised his hand, flagging down a passing cab, which stopped just in front of them. Sherlock opened the door for Irene, letting her crawl in first before he sat next to her.

"Baker Street. 221B," Irene informed the driver.

He only grunted in response and began to drive. Irene turned her eyes towards Sherlock. "Nice work back there," she said.

Sherlock smiled with genuine pleasure. "Not bad yourself."

"That's a huge compliment, coming from you," Irene replied, smiling back at him.

"It is the truth."

The pair fell into silence, simply observing each other. Irene had always appeared beautiful to Sherlock, and it was slowly becoming clear why. Though Irene was physically attractive, her brain was an alluring enigma that Sherlock needed to explore. Her very mind was what was most beautiful.

"It's a good thing that you do, you know," Irene said suddenly, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Helping people."

"I don't do it for them. I do it for myself."

Irene smirked to herself. "I know."

* * *

"Thank you for coming," Lestrade said as Mycroft strode into his office. "I tried to contact your brother, but he won't answer his phone."

Mycroft grinned fondly. "Even at the best of times, my brother can be infuriating. What's happened?"

"One of the homeless network was murdered. We're trying to determine if it's Moriarty's doing."

James Moriarty was becoming Mycroft's biggest headache. He was even a bigger pain than his brother, which was impressive. Mycroft wished Sherlock would hurry up and find him so they could all get back to their normal lives.

"How was he killed?" Mycroft asked.

Greg Lestrade picked up a picture off his desk and handed it to Mycroft. He examined it closely, taking in the bruises on his arms and the bullet wounds in his chest and head. It was brutal. Mycroft quickly handed the picture back to Lestrade.

"This wasn't him. The death was too messy. It's completely unlike Moriarty."

Lestrade sighed. He placed the picture back on his desk, amongst the mess of papers. It was amazing that the man could work in such disorder. Mycroft wondered how he found anything. Then again, Lestrade had been at Scotland Yard for a long time and probably knew what he was doing.

"I'm not sure wether to be relieved or disappointed," Lestrade said.

"Me neither," Mycroft admitted.

A ringing sound emitted from Lestrade's pocket. He pulled his phone out and checked the caller I.D., brows furrowing in confusion as he did so. "It's Molly," he stated. "Why is she calling?"

Mycroft's eyebrow's perched up with interest and worry, hoping that his friend wasn't in trouble.

"Molly? What can I do for you?" Lestrade answered. As he listened, his eyes widened, causing knots to form in Mycroft's stomach. "You think? Molly, don't do anything. I'll be over there in five minutes."

Mycroft was unused to worrying about anyone who was not his brother, but at the worry in Lestrade's voice, he found himself nearly panicked for Molly. His mind turned against him, imagining the worst possible scenarios.

"Molly? What's happening?" Lestrade asked, growing increasingly frantic. "Molly?" He swore as he hung up the phone. Without wasting time, he threw his jacket on and grabbed his keys from his desk. "I have to go."

"I'm coming," Mycroft announced.

After shooting him a brief look of surprise, Lestrade signaled for him to follow. Mycroft's heart was racing as they rushed to the car. Once inside, Lestrade put on his lights and stepped on the gas.

The drive felt endless. Blood pounded mercilessly through Mycroft's ears as Lestrade zoomed through the streets. His hands, as if having a mind of their own, clenched and unclenched repeatedly. Houses whizzed by, but he couldn't focus on anything but getting to Molly.

"What happened?" he finally asked.

"Molly said that her flat had been broken into. Then, there was a crash, and she stopped responding."

When they arrived at Molly's place, the car had barely stopped before Mycroft threw open the door and ran up to the flat. The flat door was swinging open. Once footsteps confirmed that Lestrade was behind him, Mycroft entered.

He didn't have far to go before he saw Molly. She had collapsed on the floor. A small trickle of blood stained the side of her forehead, where bruises were starting to form. "Molly!" he gasped, kneeling beside her. He took her hand in his and squeezed tightly.

Lestrade swore again as he knelt on Molly's other side. "Molly? Can you hear me?"

Molly groaned as she slowly opened her eyes. "'Strade? M'croft?"

"Oh, thank goodness," Mycroft muttered. "Molly? Are you okay? How do you feel?"

"Dizzy," she answered. "Wha' 'appened?"

"You were attacked," Lestrade answered. "Do you remember anything?"

Weakly, Molly shook her head. She closed her eyes again. "Hurts," she murmured.

"I know," Mycroft answered. "But we need you to stay with us for just another minute."

"'Kay," Molly whispered.

"Do you think she needs to go to the hospital?" Lestrade asked. "I'd say chances are pretty high that she has a concussion."

"No," Molly protested. "No 'spital."

"I can watch her," Mycroft answered. "She'll probably be fine, but I'll take her if her symptoms worsen."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

Mycroft nodded. "I've had to take care of a concussed Sherlock twice. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay," Lestrade replied, standing up to go. "Call me and tell me how she's doing, alright?"

Mycroft nodded again. Satisfied, Lestrade left him alone. Once he heard the door close, Mycroft put an arm under Molly's knees and the other under her back. Gently, he lifted her up.

"Nowwha?" Molly asked, her eyes drooping.

"Now, you sleep, and I'll wake you up every few hours to make sure you're still okay."

Molly was asleep before Mycroft could set her down on the couch. An odd feeling of protectiveness welled up in his stomach as he looked upon her sleeping form. He reached out and tentatively brushed a strand of hair out of her face before sitting in a chair across from her.

It was going to be a long night, but Mycroft didn't mind. He wanted to take care of his new friend who he was falling for.


	7. The Truth Can't Bare The Sunlight

At the ring of his phone, Sherlock jolted awake. Blinking rapidly, he took in his surroundings, trying to remember why he wasn't in bed. He must have fallen asleep on the couch when he sat down to take a break from tracking Moriarty.

He glanced at the clock, which read 00:01. Sherlock groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a restful night's sleep. It seemed that tonight would be no different.

The phone was still ringing. A quick glance at the caller I.D. confirmed that it was Mycroft calling. He rolled his eyes at his brother and answered. "Mycroft, do you have any idea what time it is?" he asked groggily.

"Were you sleeping?" came the incredulous reply.

Sherlock bit back a snarky retort and asked, "What do you need, Mycroft?"

There was a brief pause from the other end. "It's Molly Hooper. Her flat was broken into, and she was attacked."

"Is she okay?" Sherlock asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"She will be," Mycroft assured him. "I'm here now. You should come here in the morning. This may be your next lead on Moriarty."

"You think so?" Sherlock asked. "Alright. Call me when she's awake."

Without another word, Sherlock hung up the phone. His fist clenched around it tightly at the idea of Moriarty targeting his friends. He couldn't help but think back to the last time the consulting criminal targeted his friends and how that had ultimately led to losing John. What if it happened again, and he lost Irene?

As if on cue, Sherlock could hear Irene's footsteps on the stairs. It seemed that he wasn't the only one not sleeping.

"Why was Mycroft calling?" Irene asked upon entering the room. The women was barefoot, sleepy-eyed and wrapped up in her robe, which once upon a time had been his. Sherlock smiled fondly at the sight. In that moment, she just seemed so cute, which was a word he had never associated with the ex-dominatrix before.

"Molly was attacked. Mycroft thinks it was Moriarty," Sherlock explained.

Irene was instantly alert. "Attacked? Is she okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock quickly replied. "Mycroft is with her now, so I'm guessing that she was concussed and needs to be watched."

"You have a funny definition of 'okay'," Irene muttered, sitting next to him.

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

Irene nodded. "I left the door open tonight. I'm a very light sleeper."

"I suppose being a wanted women will do that to you," Sherlock mused.

Irene chuckled sleepily next to him. "Yes," she replied, yawning as she did so. "You know, I used to love my work. Back before my life was endangered because of it. I never imagined that I would get into so much trouble."

"I suppose I'm partly to blame for that," Sherlock replied apologetically.

"True," Irene agreed. "But then again, you did help me escape. I wouldn't have made it to Portugal without you, so I suppose I can forgive you for that." She smiled warmly.

"How was Portugal?" Sherlock asked.

"It was great. I was happy there. I was a bit homesick though. I'm glad I'm back."

The pair lapsed into silence. Without Irene's voice to distract him, Sherlock's worries returned to him full force. He couldn't lose this newfound friendship he had with Irene. It might just destroy him.

"What's wrong?" Irene asked, picking up on the change in his mood.

"If Moriarty did indeed target Molly, he won't stop there. Last time he went after my friends, I lost the man I loved."

Irene placed a hand gently on his arm. "You're stronger this time around," she told him. "You have more allies, and you know how he operates."

"What if I lose you this time?" Sherlock asked.

Irene smiled sadly. "Oh, Sherlock, you'll never lose me."

"How can you be so sure?" he asked.

"Well, your brother would just throw us back together for one thing," Irene joked. "In all seriousness, Sherlock, like it or not, I'm here to stay."

"I hope so," Sherlock replied. "I don't know if I could take loosing you as well."

Had the sun been shining, Sherlock doubted that he would have ever been able to admit the things he did. There was something about the night that made his tongue looser, and the words fell easily. In the morning, he knew that they would probably never speak of this again, but he was alright with that.

Irene leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on his temple. "I'll fight heaven and hell to stay with you if I have to," she vowed. "Now, it's late. Or early, I suppose. We should both get some sleep, alright?"

Sherlock nodded his agreement. His heavy eyelids were already starting to droop. Sleep sounded perfect.

* * *

The steady tick of the clock was the only sound echoing through Molly's flat. Mycroft's eyes had fallen shut as he half-consciously tried to fight off sleep. Before long, the alarm on his phone rang, bringing him back to reality. He yawned as he turned it off and checked the time.

It was 4:00, and Mycroft felt as if he were about to drop at any minute. He had dozed off in the chair a few times that night, but he didn't feel rested at all. Pushing it all to the side, he focused on the women sleeping on the couch.

He reached forward and shook Molly's arm. "Molly, wake up," he said softly. He had woken her up every two hours now to check on her, and he was sure that she was getting tired of it. She resisted, squeezing her eyes tighter and rolling over. "Molly, please. I have to make sure you're okay."

Molly turned back to him and opened her eyes. "I'm awake," she replied, sleep clouding her voice.

After a quick check to confirm that Molly was alright, Mycroft sat down again. Sleepy static danced around his eyesight as he watched Molly fall back asleep within seconds. Absently, he smoothed out his wrinkled suit. It had been a long night, and he was sure that it was reflected in his appearance. In any other situation, he would be concerned, but he was too tired to care. Besides, this was his friend.

Mycroft had heard it said that people tended to look younger and innocent in their sleep, but Molly's face wrinkled up in weariness and possibly pain, giving her the appearance of someone older and worn down.

Overcome with a sudden rush of affection, Mycroft reached out and brushed the hair back from her face. The sleeping women gave no indication of noticing the movement, so he continued to stroke her hair for a moment. Molly wrinkled her nose, and Mycroft quickly withdrew his arm and went back to watching her in silence.

He couldn't place his finger on what had caused him to fall for the women, but he had, and that couldn't be changed. Perhaps it was because she had tried to reach through his loneliness when no one else besides his brother had. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed that this women had reached out to him.

In the end, he decided that it could be traced to normal people just being polite. Molly probably had no idea of the effect that she had on Mycroft. She was probably just being nice.

As sleep overtook him, his last thoughts were of the pathologist in front of him.

* * *

The sun still had yet to rise when Molly was roused a final time. She met Mycroft's eyes and smiled. "I'm awake. For good now."

She sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes. Her hands came away stained with mascara. Molly was sure that she looked as awful as she felt. Her head hurt, though it had been reduced to a dull ache, and her mind was still hazy with sleepiness.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked.

Molly nodded as she stood. She stretched her stiff muscles, hearing her joints pop. She wanted to sleep more, but she was hungry and needed to call in sick to work. Besides, Mycroft deserved a break.

"Can I get you anything?" Molly asked as she walked into the kitchen. "I'm afraid there's not much since I meant to do the shopping last night, but I've got cereal anyways."

"Thank's for the offer, but I'm fine. I usually don't eat breakfast," Mycroft responded.

With his wrinkled suit and baggy eyes, Mycroft looked even more exhausted than Molly was sure she looked. He was struggling just to keep his eyes open. It was a miracle that he was still standing.

"You look like you could use some sleep," Molly commented as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I will be fine. I told Sherlock that I would call so he could come investigate. We think this was Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Molly asked. "If that's true, then he's probably the craziest ex I've ever had."

"You dated James Moriarty?" Mycroft asked in tired amusement.

"Yeah. Long story. Listen, the sun's not even up yet. How about you grab a few hours of sleep in my spare bedroom before calling Sherlock?"

Mycroft was too tired to argue. Molly led him down the room that was mostly used as storage, but at least it contained a bed. She half expected the man to pass out from exhaustion, but she knew from experience with late nights that the body could handle a lot. Still, she felt it was best to be prepared.

Her guest had only barely laid down on the bed before he was out. Molly smiled fondly as she closed the door. Her new friend continued to surprise her. She wondered why he hadn't just dropped her off at the hospital. It was just a testament to how much he cared, she supposed.

Molly was touched that he had stayed overnight. The list of people who would do that for her was very short, and most of it was family. When she offered her friendship to Mycroft, she hadn't imagined that the guarded politician would take it so quickly and eagerly. Not that she minded. She enjoyed having a friend who would seek her out, and not just because they needed her help.

Molly sat at her counter and continued to eat. Putting food in her stomach made her feel much better. Her headache was nearly gone. As she ate, she struggled to remember what happened before she passed out. She could remember phoning Lestrade, but that was as far as her memory stretched.

Molly rubbed at her eyes and sighed. It had been a long night, and it was shaping up to be a long day ahead of her.

* * *

When Irene awoke a second time, the sky was dim and gray. A few lone stars still shone. If she strained her ears, she could hear gentle snoring coming from downstairs. She smiled softly to herself as she sat up. She leaned against the backboard and listened for a moment. These peaceful moments were much too hard to come by.

"Sherlock," she whispered aloud, knowing that anything short of the end of the world would not wake the sleeping man downstairs. "Sherlock, there's something I've been wanting to tell you."

Irene shook her head in frustration. She had rehearsed the scenario many times, but nothing felt right. Words normally came so easily to her, but then again, she had never been so intimate before. It was new and terrifying to her, and the ex-dominatrix didn't scare easy.

"Sherlock, I know that you know I find you attractive, but-"

Irene stopped before she could finish that one. Why was this so difficult? The frustration over being unable to find the right words was building up, and the usually eloquent women hung her head and sighed. The whole situation was reminding her of a conversation she had with her friend from Portugal.

_"I mean, I hardly know him, but he's different," Irene said._

_"How so?" her neighbor, Catrina, asked._

_"He's the first person I've felt more than just lustful attraction for. It's more of a craving for intimacy," she explained._

_"Wait, I thought you were gay?" Catrina responded in confusion. "You're straight now?"_

_"Bisexual, actually," Irene explained._

_"But you liked girls? You don't anymore?"_

_Irene sighed in frustration. "Of course I do. Liking a man does not make me less bi."_

_"Are you sure you're not pansexual?" Catrina asked._

_"Would it help if I get 'bisexual' tattooed across my forehead?"_

_"So, you do like men? It's okay. I know plenty of people who liked experimenting."_

Irene groaned as she recalled the conversation. Why was it so difficult to explain her feelings for Sherlock Holmes?

"Sherlock, I know we haven't been together long, but I really need to tell you something."

Irene opened her mouth continue the single-sided, whispered conversation, but no words came out. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.

"I need to tell him. Today."

She glanced out the window. A tinge of pink touched the sky. The sun would be up soon, and so would Sherlock. She could picture his sleepy eyes and messy hair as he fixed himself a cup of coffee. The mental image brought a small smile to her face.

"I love you."


	8. The Fire

As Sherlock walked through the door of Molly's flat, Mycroft braced himself for the comments on his appearance, however, his brother remained silent. While Mycroft appreciated that for once the detective was keeping his mouth shut, it was worrisome. He watched as his brother scanned the flat almost too eagerly, his eyes restlessly running over every detail. Then there was the way his hands absently picked at his shirt sleeves. If Mycroft didn't know better, he would say that Sherlock was deeply worried.

But of course, Mycroft did know better. He was a genius, after all. And Sherlock was still deeply worried about something.

"Hello, Iceman," Irene greeted when Sherlock said nothing.

"Good to see you, Irene," Mycroft replied without taking his eyes off his brother.

"You look terrible," she said.

Mycroft smiled slightly to himself. There it was.

"Seriously though, are you alright?"

He was saved from having to answer that question by Molly's appearance. "Sherlock, Irene, thanks for coming," she said excitedly. "I hope you find what you need."

Mycroft's sleep deprived mind was unable to keep up with the deductions that he knew his brother was making, but as he watched him, he made some of his own. Sherlock hadn't been sleeping well, due to his increasing worrying, which had something to do with Moriarty. His man breaking into Molly's flat disturbed the detective more than having his own flat broken into, which told Mycroft that his brother wasn't worried about himself. It was possible that he was worried for Molly, except for the quick glances he kept casting at Irene.

Sherlock was worried about Irene, which meant that there was a possibility that he really would fall in love. Mycroft silently reveled in this tiny victory.

"I don't have time to explain it now, but this looks like the same person who broke into our flat," Sherlock announced. "There's no other reason I can think of other than he's targeting the people close to me."

"Maybe we really do need that guard dog more than I thought," Irene mussed.

"Get Ms. Hudson's approval, and I will gladly let a dog into our flat," Sherlock shot back.

As fatigued as he was, Mycroft didn't miss the way Irene's eyes lit up when Sherlock referred to the flat as theirs. Knowing his brother, there was significance behind his wording. The detective let very few people close to him, and it seemed as if the ex-dominatrix had become one of them.

"I don't suppose you can use your little deductions trick to find out where the guy went?" Molly asked.

Mycroft blinked in surprise as he turned to her. It used to be that Sherlock reduced her into the same timid girl that she was when he first met her, but now she looked unimpressed. Maybe some of that was due to her exhaustion, but the politician allowed a small part of himself to hope that she was getting over her crush for his brother.

"Little deductions trick?" Sherlock repeated, looking horrified that she had called it that.

"Sherlock, now's not the time to get your ego wounded," Irene cut in gently, a light smile on her face.

Sherlock huffed, and Molly laughed. Her entire face seemed to glow as her shoulders shook, and her lips formed a wide smile. Mycroft's eyes lingered on those lips as he watched her. He couldn't help his own smile sneaking across his face at the sight of the pathologist so happy.

"I can tell that he left through the front door, but the trail is cold after that," Sherlock said.

"You'll find him eventually," Molly said. "Preferably before my flat gets broken into again."

Mycroft's lips quirked into another small smile to his surprise. He had been smiling more these days. He only hoped that Sherlock hadn't noticed, or the teasing would be merciless. Normally, his brother would be quick to call him out on it, but he seemed preoccupied. The Moriarty case was taking it's toll on them all, and Mycroft desperately hoped that they would solve it soon.

* * *

Sherlock had turned the flat upside down, and there was still no clue as to Moriarty's motive or location. He groaned in frustration as he paced the kitchen again. The consulting criminal loved to play games, so the question was: what game was he playing now? It was likely that the spider had a web of games all going on at once, making it difficult for Sherlock to simply refuse to play.

The detective checked cabinets for the fifth time with Molly looking on. Irene was inspecting the outside of the flat while Mycroft had gone to get them lunch, leaving the two alone. Molly's eyes had been itching with a question the entire time she had been with him, and it was starting to wear on him. "Go ahead," he said as he stuck his head inside, his voice echoing around him in the small space.

"What?" Molly asked, confused.

Upon finding nothing, Sherlock brought his head back up and looked at the pathologist. "Whatever it is you've been wanting to ask, ask."

"How did you- oh, never mind," Molly sighed. She ran her fingers through her hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "Has Mycroft ever...you know...had a girlfriend?"

She couldn't meet his eyes as she spoke, instead examining the wallpaper with great interest. Her hands were wringing themselves in front of her. Sherlock doubted that she was aware of the movement. Despite her eyes not meeting his, he could see the anxiety that lurked there, as well as pouring out from the rest of her body.

Inwardly, Sherlock was smiling smugly, but he kept his face neutral as he answered. "No. Not that I'm aware of at least, and trust me, I would know."

Molly brought her eyes back to Sherlock as she snorted softly at his last remark. "You haven't either, right?"

The detective could tell that Molly was bringing the subject to him to ease her nervousness, so he decided to answer her honestly. "No. Although I did have a boyfriend for a brief period of time in college."

Molly's eyes widened in surprise. "What was his name?" she asked.

This time, Sherlock couldn't meet Molly's eyes. He distracted himself by searching another cabinet, even though he knew that if there was something to be found, he would have seen it the first time. His only relationship had failed so badly, Sherlock hated to even think about it. "Victor," he finally answered.

Thankfully, Molly asked no more questions. She busied herself by checking the fridge, making sure that nothing was missing. As Sherlock watched her, the anxiety she held didn't disappear like he had hoped it might. He frowned, wondering what he could say to his friend to help.

"Look, Molly," he finally said, the words feeling awkward and out of place as if he were talking with a swollen tongue. "If you really like my brother, then go for it. I think it would do him good."

The pathologist's eyes shot to him as she nearly slammed the fridge door closed in excitement. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, blushing.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "though probably not to him."

Molly nodded, biting her lip. She was still nervous, but there was something new in her expression. She seemed determined; confident even. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to fight the smugness he was feeling.

"Sherlock!" Irene called, interrupting his thoughts. "I've got something."

* * *

Physical attraction, Irene could handle.

As Sherlock read over the note she found in the bushes, she could ignore the way her lips longed for his as she watched them move, ever so slightly mouthing the words. She could even ignore the way that her hands itched to crawl over every inch of skin on the man. When he ran his fingers through his hair in distress, she could still ignore the increase in her heart rate and the desire pooling in her stomach.

However, as Irene was quickly learning, love could not be ignored quite so easily.

The detective's face melted into anxiety, and Irene could only barely restrain herself from wrapping her arms around him and whispering that everything would be okay. She allowed herself to place a hand on his arm, but what she really wanted to do was take his hand in her own and kiss his knuckles to calm him.

"Sherlock," Irene began, unsure of how to proceed. "Whatever the note says, we can handle it. Moriarty can't possibly beat all of us."

"You didn't read it yet?" Sherlock asked. Though he was doing his best to hide it, his voice had gotten slightly higher in fear. Irene's stomach twisted into knots upon hearing it, both with dread about the note and the hatred that she couldn't comfort her detective.

"I was too nervous," Irene admitted.

"I can't read it out loud," Sherlock said, handing it back to her.

Irene's mouth was suddenly very dry as she forced her eyes to look at the first words.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Now that I have displayed just a fraction of what I can do, I'm sure you will have no problem meeting my first demand, which is soon to follow. Because if you don't, all of your friends, plus every homeless person you have contact with will die painful deaths. See you soon!_

_XOXO Jim Moriarty_

"Ominous," Irene finally managed to say. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Her legs shook, and she wondered how long they would continue to hold her up for.

This time, Irene didn't stop herself from grabbing Sherlock's hand. She needed it as much as he did. When she had worked with the consulting criminal, she had seen just how powerful he was. Back then, she had vowed to never get on his bad side, but it seemed that she was now guilty by association.

Still, as Sherlock's fingers intwined with hers, she couldn't bring herself to regret staying with him. "We will be fine," she lied. "You know that, right?"

"You're an awful liar," Sherlock muttered.

Just like Sherlock, Irene found herself unable to convey the message to Molly. She gave the paper to the other women, who took it with eager dread. As she read, she bit at the bottom of her lip. Her face grew pale, and by the time she had finished reading, her hands were shaking slightly.

"This is pretty bad, huh?" Molly said with a fake smile, trying to appear brave. The pathologist may not have known it herself, but Irene could tell that she was. She didn't flinch when she read the letter, and Irene knew that she would pull through when things got worse.

Irene thought that things had gotten bad when she was still working as a dominatrix. As it turned out, that was only the proverbial frying pan. This was the fire.

The thud of a car door alerted the trio to Mycroft's arrival. By the time Irene could tear her eyes away from the piece of paper, Mycroft was walking down the sidewalk with bags of fast food under his arm. "What's wrong?" he asked, brows furrowing in worry. It couldn't have been difficult to pick up on the sense of fear that hung over the three of them.

Molly, the bravest of them, read the note out loud. The Iceman cringed, but he managed play it off by saying, "Perhaps this would be best discussed after lunch."

Irene nodded in agreement. Even though her appetite was mostly gone, the smell of burgers was slowly reviving it. Besides, the situation would probably look less grim once some time had passed.

* * *

It was decided that they would wait for Moriarty's demand before acting. While Molly still felt incredibly uneasy, she knew that there was nothing more that could be done until then.

After Sherlock and Irene left, Mycroft remained standing in her kitchen. All day long, Molly had been trying to figure out Mycroft's motive for staying with her. She began to wonder if there was something more than friendship involved, but that could be just a figment of her lonely imagination.

Molly could easily picture herself with him. The more time she spent with him, the more she noticed her infatuation for Sherlock fading. She didn't know what she felt for her new friend, but it seemed worth exploring.

As she watched Mycroft now, the mask had dropped, and it looked as if the anxiety would eat him alive. Gently, Molly approached him and touched his wrist. The man started at the touch, but he quickly relaxed upon confirming that it was only her.

"We will get through this," Molly said firmly.

Mycroft met her eyes and smiled weakly. He had a strange look on his face that reminded her of someone, but she couldn't put her finger on who it was.

"You cannot stay here alone," Mycroft said, his voice heavy. "Do you have family you could stay with?"

"Not nearby," Molly answered. "Besides, I'm certainly not putting them in danger."

A look of guilt flashed across Mycroft's eyes so quickly that Molly almost didn't see it at all. "I'll be fine," she said quickly, hoping to reassure him. "I'll start sleeping with a gun under my pillow."

"That's not enough," Mycroft insisted. "You should stay with me."

A different sort of nervousness took over Mycroft's face. Molly instantly recognized it as the fear of rejection. Seeing the look on the guarded politician's face surprised her. In fact, he looked just like Tom.

Oh. Molly blinked in surprise at her own discovery. Her heart started to beat faster as she met his eyes. "You wouldn't mind?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"I could never mind, Molly," Mycroft replied softly. His eyes were gentle, and as Molly thought about it, she realized that they had always been while directed at her.

"Why do you want to help me?" Molly asked, almost whispering. Her eyes fixed themselves on his face, waiting for his reaction.

"I have come to deeply care about you," Mycroft admitted. His eyes looked away from hers nervously. "I feel an overwhelming urge to keep you safe, and I can't really explain it."

That was all the confirmation Molly needed. She stepped closer, much closer than she had ever been to the man before. His eyes glanced longingly at her lips, and his breath hitched in his throat. Molly leaned in slowly, and Mycroft copied her. With adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, Molly leaned in all the way and captured his lips in a rush of uncharacteristic bravery.

Mycroft did not hesitate to return the kiss as his hands found her hips. Molly's own hands rested on his back. It was a very chaste kiss, and Molly was the first to pull away after a few seconds, leaving Mycroft looking slightly confused, but he was smiling happily. "That was...unexpected," he said finally.

"But nice?" Molly asked.

"Yes," he answered, his eyes searching her face.

Molly grinned to herself. It had been nice. Her heart still felt fast, but a calm warmth spread through the rest of her body. Yes, this was definitely worth exploring further.


	9. Transitioning

It was Irene who found Moriarty's demand a few days later.

Irene had gone down to see Ms. Hudson to ask how she felt about dogs when she saw the piece of paper stuck in the window. She pulled it out before her landlady could see it, and after checking to make sure it was Moriarty's handwriting, she pocketed it.

"Sherlock makes a big enough mess. Why do you need a dog?" Ms. Hudson asked.

Irene cleared her throat nervously, unsure of how to begin. She didn't want to worry the other women, but she needed to hear the truth. "Moriarty's been targeting us. I think a guard dog could be useful."

Ms. Hudson frowned thoughtfully. "So could an alarm system, and those make less of a mess."

"Yes," Irene agreed. "But I think a dog could help Sherlock too. He's been so sad ever since John got married, and I just want to help him be happy again."

When a look of sadness crossed over her landlady's face, Irene instantly felt guilty for trying to manipulate her. She had grown fond of Ms. Hudson. It was hard to know her and not be fond of her. Still, Irene knew that she wasn't wrong. A dog would cheer up Sherlock considerably.

"I suppose you're right," Ms. Hudson admitted. "Very well. I'll allow it so long as you keep him from peeing in the flat."

Irene blinked in surprise as a wide smile broke out over her face. "Thank you so much, Ms. Hudson. I'll go tell him the news."

With a new bounce in her step, Irene scaled the stairs to her own flat. As soon as she was at the door, she felt the weight in her pocket, and her good mood dissipated. She touched the piece of paper gently. She hadn't read it, but she knew that it couldn't be good news given who it was coming from.

She opened the door to find Sherlock sitting on the couch with his hands clasped under his chin, exactly as she had left him. Irene debated wether or not she should disturb him just yet and decided that this was something he needed to see immediately. She cleared her throat, catching Sherlock's attention.

When she produced the paper from her pocket, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Is that...?" he asked, unable to finish.

"It's him," Irene answered.

Hesitantly, the detective took the paper from her and slowly unfolded it. Irene sat next to him and looked over his shoulder, holding her breath as the message was revealed.

Sherlock,

Meet me on the roof of St. Bart's tomorrow night at 19:00 where we can have a discussion. Come alone. Or not, I suppose. It doesn't matter to me.

XOXO Jim Moriarty

"The roof of St. Bart's?" Irene asked. "Isn't that where you faked your death two years ago?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied softly. "What game is he playing?"

Irene shifted her position to face him. "I don't suppose it matters since we're going anyways."

Sherlock nodded his agreement. "Still, it helps to be prepared."

After a moment of silence, Irene stood. "I'll let Mycroft know."

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "There's no reason to involve him. Or Molly, since she'll want to come too."

Irene scanned his face, hoping his motives would be written there, but they never were. She sighed in frustration. "Sherlock, he can help us."

"He sits behind an office desk all day," Sherlock replied. "It's best not to put him in danger. Besides, if he tells Molly, she will show up too, and I don't want to put her in danger either."

Reluctantly, Irene nodded her agreement. "What about John? He has experience with this. He can help."

"No," Sherlock answered. "I can't put him in danger either. Not with Mary due in a few days."

"Sherlock, you can't do this alone again!" Irene exclaimed, exasperated.

The detective's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I won't be alone. I'll have you."

Irene couldn't fight the large smile taking over her face. "That's right," she said. "You do have me."

A rush of affection swept over her as she watched Sherlock jump up from the couch and grab his violin. He played a few quick arpeggios as he danced around the room. With his eyes almost closed, he looked peaceful despite the upcoming meeting.

Irene placed her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. She nearly laughed at the look of annoyance she received. "Sherlock, as much as I love the idea of the two of us taking on a criminal mastermind together, we need to be smart about this. Moriarty is expecting you to leave John out of this, but he can help. Besides, he absolutely hates being left in the dark about this kind of thing. He would want you to call him."

The detective thought it over for a minute before putting his violin down. "You are right. I will go to his house to show him the note now."

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the couch and rushed to the door. Irene chuckled to herself. Her heart was still warm at Sherlock's earlier statement.

_'I won't be alone. I'll have you.'_

She felt honored by Sherlock's instant decision to include her in his plans. It was a sign of trust, and maybe even love. Irene allowed herself to hope that maybe Sherlock was beginning to feel the same about her.

After grabbing his laptop, she flopped down onto the couch. Now that she had Ms. Hudson's approval, she was free to look for a good animal shelter.

* * *

Sherlock was always hyper aware of his surroundings. He took pride in the fact that he could notice every detail, and the included the way his body reacted. Often times, he noticed the reaction in his body without understanding, such as when he stood in front of John's door.

The usual clenching of his stomach was absent. Sherlock frowned in confusion. John was always giving the detective what other people called 'butterflies', and yet as he knocked, he felt nothing; not even an increase in his heart rate.

When John answered the door, Sherlock met his smile with one of his own without having to force it, but it felt different. Everything inside his body screamed "friend" rather than "man I love", and it was perplexing. The detective didn't want to stop loving John, and he wasn't sure why he was.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked, snapping his fingers in front of the zoned-out detective's face.

With a quick shake of his head, Sherlock shook himself back to reality. "Yes. We need to talk."

John stepped to the side, inviting his friend in. As Sherlock stepped inside, his shoulder accidentally brushed the other man's. He waited for the usual butterflies, but they didn't come. Sherlock frowned again, annoyed at his body's lack of reaction.

"It's Moriarty again," Sherlock announced once the door was closed.

"Great," John muttered. "What does he want this time?"

"For me to meet him on the roof of St. Bart's," Sherlock answered.

"And you're just going to go?" John questioned, arms crossed in front of him. "You're just going to play right into his hands?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply. "I tried to refuse to play Moriarty's game last time, and it didn't work. This time, I'm going to meet him head on."

John nodded, smiling slightly. "Sounds like a plan. But you're not going alone."

"Of course not. I'll have you and Irene."

The other man's eyebrows rose, giving away his surprise. "Great. When are we going?"

"19:00," the detective answered. "Come armed."

"Of course," John replied with a laugh. "I'm going to meet a criminal mastermind on top of the roof of a hospital. When did this become my life?"

"When you agreed to become flat-mates with me. Sorry about that."

John laughed again. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

The detective didn't stay for much longer. After a few minutes, he was in a cab again, contemplating his interaction with his friend, because friend was the appropriate word now, and it shouldn't be. John had never been just a friend before, nor even just a best friend. It was always deeper than that.

He was still lost in thought when he arrived at the flat. Although he still noticed every tiny detail, it was in the back of his mind as he tried to figure out what changed. What made him stop loving John?

As he walked past Irene, their fingers briefly touched. She continued walking as if she hadn't noticed, but it stopped Sherlock cold. His stomach clenched up in the familiar feeling of butterflies, and his heart rate increased for a few seconds. He turned quickly to watch her walking into the kitchen, feeling the familiar longing that used to feel towards John for her.

Oh. So that was what was happening.

* * *

"Sherlock has found Moriarty's demand," Mycroft announced, striding into the kitchen.

Over the past few days when Molly had been staying with him, it was like she was looking at an entirely different person. He looked different without a suit on and without leaning on his umbrella. Even now, wearing dark dress pants and a simple white shirt, he looked so different than the tense politician Molly had come to know. The past few days of seeing the real Mycroft had been nice, and her affection for the man only grew.

"He called?" Molly asked. She hadn't remembered hearing a phone ring.

"Not exactly," Mycroft replied, looking slightly embarrassed.

Molly smiled to herself, returning her attention to the eggs she was scrambling. She would probably never stop being amused by the odd relationship the brothers had.

"Did you install a camera in his flat?" she asked.

"Yes," Mycroft admitted. "I knew that he wouldn't tell me, and I was right. He told John however, which was unexpected. Irene must be a good influence on him."

"So, what are we doing?" Molly asked as she turned the stove off. The smell of eggs made her mouth water slightly as she searched for plates.

"I'm going to go with Sherlock to meet Moriarty tomorrow at 19:00 on St. Bart's roof," Mycroft answered, opening the right cabinet for Molly.

"So am I," Molly replied, pulling out two plates and dumping scrambled eggs on them.

Mycroft touched her arm, pulling her attention away from lunch. "This could be dangerous, Molly. I can't let you. It would be-"

The pathologist leaned forward and took his lips with her own, effectively silencing him. She leaned away again, smiled, and replied, "I'm coming."

It was only the second time they had kissed, and Molly held her breath for a moment, wondering if it had been okay. When the politician smiled and nodded, she released it in her relief.

"Alright. I don't suppose there's anything I can do to stop you anyways."

"Nope," Molly agreed.

"I think we need to talk about this- whatever it is- between us," Mycroft said softly.

"I think that's a good idea," the pathologist replied.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. "What is between us, exactly?" he asked awkwardly.

"Well, we both seem to like each other," Molly said, feeling just as awkward. "A lot," she added.

"Is a relationship something you want to try?" Mycroft asked. His eyes nervously met hers.

"Yes," Molly replied after a long pause. The awkwardness felt like a tangible presence hanging in the air, but she found that she didn't mind when she saw the way his eyes lit up in sheet joy.

After another long pause, the politician laughed nervously and shook his head. "I don't even know where to begin," he admitted.

"How about lunch?" Molly suggested. "If we wait much longer, it will be cold."

* * *

The silence that rested upon the couple was a comforting one. As Mycroft observed his girlfriend (was that what she was called now? He had no idea), a small smile formed on his face. She was sitting on the couch, her legs curled up under her and her eyes squinting slightly at the book in her hands. The whole moment felt incredibly domestic, and to Mycroft's surprise, he hadn't happier in a long time.

"You're staring again," Molly commented, causing the politician to nearly jump out of his skin.

"S-sorry," he stuttered, turning back to his phone. Anthea was texting him the details for his next meeting with the prime minister, but he found it hard to focus with Molly sitting so close to him.

"It's alright," she replied with a slight smile.

A small blush crept up Mycroft's face as he admitted, "I'm really new to this."

Molly nodded thoughtfully with a small hum. "Perhaps we should go on a real date. After the Moriarty thing is over, of course. We could see a movie?" she suggested.

"I'd like that," Mycroft responded. The small smile was back on his face, and the politician was powerless to stop it.

Molly returned to her book, and Mycroft returned to watching her. He had always thought of other people as boring, but the women in front of him held his full attention. Even the way her eyes moved back and forth across the page was fascinating. He had no idea what drew him to Molly, but he never wanted to stop.

After a few moments, Molly closed the book and set it beside her. "I can't really focus," she admitted. "Do you want to watch something?"

Mycroft handed her the remote and said, "Anything you want."

Molly began to flip through channels, and though Mycroft tried to keep his focus on the television screen, his eyes kept returning to the pathologist. When her eyes lit up, he turned to see what she had found. "They're playing Harry Potter in a few minutes," she said excitedly. "Do you want to watch it?"

"That would be great," Mycroft replied, smiling fondly at her.

The movie started, and Molly shifted closer to him. The politician's heart faltered for a second as her arm gently touched his. The women's hand curled around his, and he eagerly wrapped it around her's in response. It was colder than Mycroft was expecting, yet his skin felt hot where she touched.

Eventually, Molly leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The young boy fighting a troll on the screen was quickly forgotten as Mycroft turned his eyes to her. She was enthralled with the movie in a way that made her eyes narrow and the corners of her mouth raise up. A warm feeling of protectiveness hit him at full force as he continued to watch her. He shifted his arm to wrap around her and pull her closer, hoping to convey all he felt.

The domesticity was certainly something he could imagine himself getting used to. He just hoped that it would last long enough for him to be able to.


	10. The Rooftop

As Sherlock climbed the final steps onto the roof with John and Irene by his side, his breath caught in his throat at the assault of memories. He could almost feel the wind rush by him as he jumped, hurtling towards the Earth. Suppressing a shudder, he walked forwards, scanning the horizon for his enemy, but instead finding the two people he had deliberately tried to keep from coming.

"No," he protested firmly.

Mycroft and Molly sat onr the edge of the roof, shoulders touching. His brother smiled smugly, waving in greeting.

"You didn't tell me they were coming," John commented.

"They weren't supposed to," Sherlock grumbled loudly enough for his brother to hear him.

"Now Sherlock," Mycroft began, standing. "Didn't we agree to do this together?

"No!" Sherlock snapped as his brother as Molly came to stand beside him. "It's too dangerous for the two of you to be here!"

A touch on his arm instantly calmed him. He turned towards it, meeting Irene's gentle eyes. "Nothing's going to happen to us. Besides, don't we have safety in numbers?"

With a sigh, Sherlock turned back to his brother. "Fine. You can stay."

"You're not exactly in control of wether we do or don't, Sherlock," Molly piped up.

The detective blinked in surprise at Molly's newfound boldness. He smiled slightly. It was obvious by the way she stood so close to his brother that his plan had worked. Now that he could see the confidence in the pathologist's eyes, and the warmth glowing in Mycroft's, he knew they were an excellent match.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked.

Both John and Irene snorted, trying to conceal their laughter. The genius glared back at them in annoyance before answering Molly. "We find out what Moriarty wants, and we improvise from there."

The confidence in her eyes didn't waver as she replied, "That's not much of a plan."

"Sherlock's more of a rash action type of person," John answered, drawing a chuckle out of the pathologist.

"That doesn't matter," Irene cut in, touching Sherlock's arm again. "No matter what happens, we're behind you one-hundred percent."

He leaned into her hand, letting her touch drive out the memories of the wind, the Earth, and the pain. Her voice blocked out the sound of John's screaming, leaving only calm. As if sensing his need, she placed her other hand on his lower arm, gently wrapping her fingers around him.

"My, this is quite the party," a high-pitched voice exclaimed from the stairs.

Sherlock didn't have to turn to recognize the voice that haunted his nightmares. His skin prickled, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand. Irene's grip on his arm tightened. He met her eyes, which were filled with great trust and affection. She nodded slightly at him, and the simple action calmed his racing heart.

The detective turned to face his nightmare with a sarcastic smile on his face. "You're late."

* * *

It was difficult for Mycroft not to draw his gun from where it was hidden and shoot the consulting criminal on sight. Even the sound of his voice was nauseating; having to stare at the smug smile that brought his brother so much pain was unbearable. His hand itched, curling into a fist.

"Sorry about that," Moriarty replied smugly. "Pesky last minute things."

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped.

"To issue a challenge," the criminal answered. "I couldn't resist."

Mycroft felt as if he could reach out and touch the tension hanging in the air with his hand, which was starting to sting. He uncurled his fist, noticing the nail imprints in his skin. Beads of blood had formed, and the politician wiped them off on his suit.

"You have exactly three weeks to stop me," Moriarty continued. "Or the British government takes a huge hit. And Sherlock, you'll probably die."

It took all of Mycroft's will not to shoot the consulting criminal right there, but he knew there was probably a sniper trained on his back, or even Molly's back. He grit his teeth, watching as Moriarty leaned in closer to his brother, smiling sickeningly. His teeth glistened like shark teeth, and his eyes narrowed like a snake.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely shaking.

"I love the game," Moriarty answered, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He leaned away, spreading his hands in front of him in a dramatic what-can-I-say motion.

"Also," he added, turning his conceited gaze towards Mycroft. "I want to see big brother squirming as he fails to save you once again."

Mycroft held back a snarl as he answered. "That's not going to happen. Not again." His voice quivered with badly disguised rage.

"Oh, but won't it?" Moriarty taunted, stepping closer.

He had to swallow back bile before answering again. "No," he replied firmly.

"I suppose you think that if you work together, you can stop me," the criminal said. "But you can't. I have a way with manipulating emotions. You know that, don't you Molly?"

His eyes turned to the pathologist, who met them confidently. "I think you've already exhausted your good ideas," she replied, calmer than either brother had been.

The consulting criminal laughed. "But that's not quite true. You know that, Ms. Adler."

Irene's hands had yet to move from Sherlock's arm. "I know," she said. "But I also know that we can beat you."

"But at what cost?" Moriarty asked, finally turning to John. "You know more than anybody how high that price is. Are you sure you even want to?"

John straightened himself like the soldier he was and firmly answered, "Yes." Upon seeing his resolve, Mycroft was sorry he had ever doubted the man before.

"Well, if you're sure, then I suppose that concludes my business here," Moriarty said, straightening his suit. "Don't follow me, or you'll find it very hard to walk for the next little while."

The consulting criminal disappeared down the staircase, leaving Mycroft to wonder how he could protect everybody.

* * *

Fifteen minutes passed and nobody could move from the roof. The group sat on the edge, except for Sherlock, who paced back and forth almost aggressively. The distress was written clearly across his face as his movements became more agitated. He muttered to himself, his eyes flaring at every word.

Finally, Irene decided that she'd had enough and moved to take Sherlock's hand. He paused, instantly calming at her touch. "We're going to be okay," she said firmly.

"How could you know that?" Sherlock asked. "We weren't last time."

"This is exactly what he wants," she explained. "He didn't come here to 'issue a challenge', Sherlock, he came to rattle us."

"I should just go after him myself," Sherlock replied, pulling himself out of Irene's grip and walking the other way.

"What are you going to do, cut him with your cheek bones?" she challenged.

The detective turned back to her, looking almost offended.

"You need to listen to me," Irene continued. "You are not alone, and that is why this time will be different."

"She's right," John piped up, moving to stand next to Irene. "You have friends, Sherlock, and not just me. You have lots of them."

Sherlock looked around the roof at each person who had come to support him before turning back to Irene and smiling. "You're right," he said.

"I bet those words tasted like vinegar," Irene replied with a smirk.

"Just tell us the plan, and we'll follow," John added, sneaking an amazed glance at Irene.

Sherlock nodded, his expression glazing over into something Irene recognized as his 'mind palace face'. She turned to John, sharing a knowing smile with him. "We'll probably be here awhile," she said.

"I was right," Mycroft cut in. "The two of you are good for each other."

"You are," John agreed. "I could never get him to calm down and listen to reason."

Irene glanced back at her detective, who was lost in thought. He had sat down, closing his eyes and clasping his hands under his chin. The wind blew his mess of curls every direction.

"I was worried," John continued, pulling Irene's attention back to him. "When I got married, I worried that he would have trouble adjusting, but you've helped him a lot."

"And you care for him a lot," Molly added, speaking for the first time since Moriarty's departure.

"I do," Irene agreed, turning back to Sherlock. Under his eyelids, she could tell his eyes were moving frantically, trying to solve the puzzle. He loved puzzles, and Moriarty was the biggest one of all. Underneath the fear and stress, Irene knew there was a small part of him that was enjoying it.

"He's planning a terrorist attack," Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes flying open.

"What makes you so sure?" Irene asked.

"There's a meeting in exactly three weeks, and I'm supposed to be there," he explained.

"Why?" Irene asked, frowning.

"Something about the Magnusson incident. Anyways, I know exactly how he's going to do it too."

"How's that?" Mycroft asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"Dimethylmercury," Sherlock responded.

"He was only testing it on the homeless network," Irene supplied. "He plans to take it to the next level."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, standing up. "Now the tricky part is, he's expecting us to have figured it out."

"Of course," John groaned.

"He could put it anywhere," Irene mussed. "There's no way we can beat him there. Mycroft, you have to cancel that meeting."

"No!" Sherlock quickly cut in. "That's our best chance of catching him."

"Irene's right," Mycroft said. "It's too dangerous. I'm going to cancel it."

Before Sherlock could complain, Irene cut in. "We can figure out something safer, alright? We can't win at his game, and we can't refuse to play. That means, we have to force him to play ours."

"Can we do that to a spider such as Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, looking doubtful.

"We can," Irene replied with a grin. An idea had started taking shape in her head, and she almost couldn't contain her excitement, knowing that it could work.

"How?" Sherlock asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"With an inside man."

* * *

Exhausted, Molly flopped down onto Mycroft's couch. As a child, she had never imagined that she would be meeting criminal masterminds on rooftops, but here she was. She had known long ago that developing a crush on the handsome detective that often visited the morgue was a bad idea, but she couldn't have predicted just how dangerous it would be to befriend him.

"This is insane," she said out loud.

Mycroft chuckled lightly as he sat next to her. "This is life with the Holmes brothers," he said.

"And it's insane!" Molly exclaimed, laughing. "Not that I'm complaining, but when did this become my life?"

Mycroft glanced upwards, considering the question. "Probably when you befriended my brother," he answered. "He should come with a warning label."

The pathologist smiled and nodded. "Well, I wanted friends. I suppose beggars can't be choosers."

"You didn't have any?" Mycroft asked, the light-hearted expression gone from his face. "Not even at work?"

"I work with dead bodies," Molly replied casually. "My closest friend was Greg Lestrade, who was always coming in to investigate them."

The politician's eyes darkened as if he were deep in thought. His usually calm expression gave way to sadness for a brief moment. As she watched his face, Molly wondered if he knew the same loneliness she had experienced. Anybody alone in an empty house was bound to feel lonely, no matter how large the house or how amazing the person was.

"You have us now," Mycroft announced, grabbing Molly's hand. "Especially me."

"I'm glad," Molly replied, a warmth spreading through her stomach. "Thank you."

"You don't feel lonely anymore, do you?" Mycroft asked.

Molly thought back through the last few weeks since she had begun working on the Moriarty case. She had been surrounded by more people than normal, and to her surprise, she found that she hadn't been lonely in awhile. "I don't," she answered honestly.

"You shouldn't have to," Mycroft replied, almost whispering. "Speaking of work, I'm going to have to go in tomorrow. I can't keep calling in sick."

"Alright," Mycroft agreed. "But call me if anything happens."

"Nothing is going to happen," Molly protested. She leaned back, closing her tired eyes. "But alright, I promise I'll call."

The pair fell into comfortable silence, and Molly's mind slipped further into sleep. She tried for a few minutes to hold her eyes open, but the exhaustion was getting to her. Finally she positioned herself into a more comfortable position and let herself sleep.


	11. Rattled

**AN: **Please forgive my late night/early morning editing, my lack of knowledge on all things pathology, and the legnth of time it took to post this.

* * *

As a dominatrix, Irene had collected a lot of blackmail material, most of which was lost when she lost the phone. However, she still had paper copies of certain information. As luck would have it, she possessed records of a man who worked for Moriarty. As soon as she arrived back at the flat, she pulled a folder out from inside her mattress. She had cut a slit in the bottom her first night so she could store sensitive information somewhere Sherlock wouldn't accidentally stumble across it.

She sat on the bed, opening the folder in her hands. The records inside displayed information about a man named Alfred Schlebach, although he never went by that name. The man had a long criminal history but had managed to slip under the British government's radar for the most part.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Irene closed the folder and stood. She met Sherlock in the doorway, holding the information out to him. "This is our man," she said as he took the folder.

Sherlock thumbed through the papers, scanning them faster than should have been humanly possible. "How can we trust a man like this?" he asked.

"This is a man who is loyal only to his own interests, and I know where he keeps his heart."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, his eyes filling with excitement.

"His brother," Irene answered. "He's the one person this man cares about that's not himself. That is how we get him to turn."

Sherlock nodded, looking impressed. "When do we make contact?"

"I'm going tomorrow alone," Irene answered firmly. "This is a delicate situation, and I can't bring any backup with me."

"And the rooftop wasn't a delicate situation?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Fair enough," Irene relented. "We will pay his brother a visit tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled smugly, causing Irene to roll her eyes. It was a contagious smile, and soon Irene was grinning along with him. She took the folder and placed it back inside her mattress. Before tomorrow, she would need to find a better hiding spot for it. She was about to make a dangerous move, but Moriarty was forcing her hand.

"You've missed this, haven't you?" Sherlock asked, still smug.

"Yes," Irene admitted. "But at least I have the government on my side this time. I've found that criminals are a lot easier to shake and can often be payed off when you make them your enemy, but the government is a different beast."

"Really?" he asked, curious.

"They aren't incorruptible, but they are as a whole harder to pay off," Irene answered.

"Or blackmail," Sherlock added. "Your specialty."

Irene rolled her eyes again, turning back to Sherlock. "A girl's got to make a living somehow."

From the hole in her mattress, Irene dug out another paper. She unfolded it and handed it to Sherlock. "What do you think?" she asked. "Things are about to get a lot more dangerous around here, and a dog could be useful."

"This is the dog you want?" he asked, examining the picture of the black and white Boston Terrier. "I imagined something bigger."

"We don't need a dog to fight, just one that will bark and wake me up," Irene explained. She didn't add that the other reason was that she thought it would make him happy. Already some of the pain had left his eyes, and it was her goal to make sure that it left completely.

"Alright," Sherlock agreed.

"You have to come with me," Irene insisted.

The detective raised a curious eyebrow. "Why?"

"We need to make sure he likes you."

* * *

Through the bars of the cage, the dog Irene had chosen stared up at Sherlock with hope glittering in his eyes. He was reminded of the day he first met Redbeard, and though he was much older, he still felt the same glimmer of excitement. As the shelter worker lifted him out of his cage and set him into Sherlock's arm, the detective felt a small smile forming on his lips.

"This is the one," he informed Irene.

The dog wagged his tail, gently hitting Sherlock's arm. Sherlock had always loved dogs, and the one in his arms was no exception. His eyes held so much affection even though he had just met Sherlock. It was the reason the detective generally preferred dogs to people, although there were a few exceptions, such as John and Irene.

The Women stood next to him, clipboard in hand. "Well, I'm almost done with the paperwork. The shelter named him Tag. Are we keeping that name?"

"It's probably best not to confuse him with too much change," Sherlock responded. He shifted his hands so that he could scratch Tag's head.

"Good idea," Irene agreed as she continued to write. "Here's the tag they gave us." Without looking, she handed it to him. "You can go ahead and put it on his collar."

Sherlock glanced down at the writing on the tag and froze. "Irene," he whispered, his voice urgent.

"What is it?" Irene asked, looking up from the paperwork, her eyebrows knitted with worry.

He turned his hand to show her the writing on the tag.

_I will always find you. XOXO J. Moriarty._

"How?" Irene asked, unable to say anything else.

"The spider is skilled," he said simply.

"What do we do?" she asked, unsure.

Sherlock glanced down at Tag, who was still looking up at him with complete faith. In a way, he reminded him of his friends, John and Irene. Both of them would follow him anywhere, even if it got them killed.

He looked back to Irene. Just as he thought, she was staring at him with unwavering faith in her eyes, even if the rest of her face was contorted with worry.

"We ignore it," he answered. "As you said, he wants to rattle us. We simply do not let him."

Irene nodded her approval, perhaps a little too quickly. Sherlock couldn't help but remember how readily John had trusted him and how poorly that ended for him. He needed to be more careful, or Irene really would follow him to her death.

"Do we tell Mycroft?" she asked.

"We do," Sherlock decided.

Irene blinked in surprise. "Wow. That sounded responsible," she commented.

"I'm a changed man," he admitted, and it was the truth. Irene was changing him for the better.

* * *

After her recent adventures, Molly found herself bored pretty soon after she arrived at work. During the slow moments, she caught herself daydreaming about chasing Moriarty across rooftops and finally bringing him to justice. She had gotten a taste of the excitement and danger, and now she wanted more.

The man who lay in front of her was in his mid-twenties with no known health conditions before he died. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place where she knew him from. She shrugged it off and examined the papers in front of her. Her eyes almost immediately fell on one word, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

Homeless. The dead man in front of her had been homeless, and she had checked him for dimethylmercury poisoning with the rest of Sherlock's homeless network.

A little uneasy, Molly began her autopsy. As she worked, she tried to convince herself that it was a coincidence, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Given the nature of the criminal she was working with, she wouldn't put it past him to kill a man just to scare her.

It didn't take long for Molly to determine that the man died from arsenic poisoning in his food. She had no way to tie his death to Moriarty, but she knew it had to be. The circumstantial evidence in her mind was too great for it to be anything but the consulting criminal.

She looked through his records again, a little more thoroughly this time. As she flipped through pages, her eyes were drawn to writing in the corner, where somebody had scrawled in pen:_ I will always find you. XOXO J. Moriarty._

She swallowed hard. Her heart started to race unpleasantly faster and faster. She had proof now that Moriarty had killed him to mess with her head, and she couldn't do anything about it. Feelings of helplessness began to overwhelm her. She took a few steps back, breathing deeply.

"You'll be okay," she assured herself.

Molly pulled her phone from her pocket and took a picture of the message and sent it to Sherlock and Mycroft, adding: _Should we be worried?_

Sherlock's response came first. _No. Irene and I found something similar. Moriarty is only trying to scare us, but he will not succeed._

She kept herself from telling Sherlock that he was succeeding. Somehow, she had ended up going against one of the most powerful men out there, and while it excited her, it terrified her to no end. Against him, she felt as if there was nothing that could be done.

Mycroft's reply was a little more worried. _You should get out of there now._

_I can't just leave work_, she shot back.

_It is unsafe for you there._

_I will be fine. If he wanted me dead, I would be dead._

_That is not comforting Molly..._

_Don't worry. I've got the situation under control._

_Just be safe._

Molly returned her phone to her pocket and finished up her work with the homeless man. After all, there was more to be done.

* * *

"Sir, there's been a sighting."

Mycroft looked up from his desk to where Anthea was standing in the doorway. A worried expression marked her usually indifferent face.

"Where?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Right outside your window, sir," she answered, glancing at it nervously.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering what it was that the consulting criminal could possibly want. After the messages from Sherlock and Molly, his stomach was sick with worry. It was getting harder to protect everyone; possibly too hard. His self-assigned mission to keep everyone safe seemed doomed to fail. However, that wouldn't stop him from trying.

He rose from his chair and walked to the window. Sure enough, Moriarty stood on the sidewalk below. He grinned up at Mycroft and waved. "What is he doing here?" he wondered out loud.

"Showing off, perhaps," Anthea supplied. "The man is invincible, and he knows it."

Moriarty apparently decided that he was done and walked away. Still, Mycroft couldn't tear his eyes from the window. He wanted to run after him; to catch the criminal and kill him himself, but he knew that such an action would end only in his death. Moriarty was a genius, even more so than Mycroft it seemed. The man had fooled everyone into thinking that he had blown his own brains out after all.

The game was on, and it was more dangerous than ever.

"What do we do, sir?" Anthea asked.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Anthea nodded solemnly. "Can you really beat him, sir? Can you beat a man that powerful?"

"I don't know," Mycroft repeated, hanging his head in shame.

Without another word, Anthea left, leaving Mycroft alone with his despair. The fear felt like it would eat him alive. He couldn't help but imagine Sherlock and Molly dead over and over again. The mental images kept coming, each worse than the last.

Finally, when he couldn't handle it anymore, he reached for the phone and dialed.

"Hello?" Molly answered, sounding concerned.

"It's good to hear your voice," Mycroft admitted.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied. "It's just been an awful day."

"Well, we all have those," Molly said.

"He was here," Mycroft told her, lowering his voice to almost a whisper.

"Who?" Molly asked, alarmed.

"Moriarty."

"Doing what?" she asked, the worry growing in her voice.

"I don't know," he admitted. "He was just standing there."

"He's just trying to rattle you," Molly told him. "Just ignore him."

"I can't," he replied, frustrated.

"I know," Molly said softly. "It's hard. And the truth is, I'm afraid too."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "What if I lose my brother again? What if I lose you?"

"That's not going to happen," Molly replied firmly.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

"We have strength in numbers," she insisted.

"So does he," Mycroft pointed out.

"Look," Molly said. "This is exactly what he wants. He wants us to be so afraid that we completely unravel, and he wins. In fact, that's what he's betting on. He's an expert at controlling and manipulating emotions, but we can't let him get to us, because it is only then that we lose."

After a long pause, Mycroft replied, "You really think we can win?"

"I know we can," she said, her voice full of faith.

Mycroft smiled to himself. Hope had returned, and with it a determination to stop Moriarty once and for all and keep everyone safe. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He hung up and returned to his work with new energy. After talking to Molly, he felt unstoppable. He could do anything, as long as she was there to help him.


	12. Kenneth Schlebach

**AN: **Sorry that it's taken me so long to update. I am behind on my entire life right now. I'll try to be faster.

* * *

The house of Kenneth Schlebach was rather unimpressive. It was a small, rundown place about an hour away from anything. Obviously, Mr. Schlebach didn't want to be disturbed. Sherlock approached the door with caution, wondering just what kind of man Kenneth was.

He knocked three times against the heavy, wooden door. The sound echoed around them. It was very different from being in the city where the noise pollution drowned everything out. Here, the air was still and silent. Sherlock could feel the calm hanging in the air. Even his usually wired mind seemed to settle.

The man who answered the door was very different than the one Sherlock expected. Kenneth was short and bony with a mess of dark hair covering his face. He didn't spend much time outside, judging by his lack of tan lines, and Sherlock could detect five different cats' fur on his clothes.

"Can I help you?" Kenneth asked. His voice was small and frail, much like he was.

"We were wondering if you knew where your brother is," Irene piped up from beside him.

Kenneth instantly paled, which was impressive given how pale he already was. "I don't have a brother," he answered quickly, shutting the door.

Before he could get the door fully closed, Sherlock stuck out his foot, blocking him. "Now, Mr. Kenneth Schlebach, we know that isn't true."

Kenneth's eyes grew wide with panic. "How do you know my name?" he demanded, pushing harder on the door.

"We don't wish any harm on you or your brother," Irene informed him. "We just need to talk to him."

"Why?" Kenneth asked, pausing.

"We need a favor," she said. "But first, we need your help in finding him."

"I can't help you," Kenneth insisted.

"Oh, I think you can," Sherlock replied. "Because if you don't, his entire criminal record is going to end up on the desk of the British government."

Kenneth sighed in defeat, opening the door. "You had better come in."

As he stepped over the threshold, the smell of cats became clearer. He wrinkled his nose, hoping the following conversation wouldn't last long.

Kenneth led them into his kitchen. A gray cat stretched across the counter, glaring at Sherlock. Kenneth picked him up off of a pad of paper and pen. "I can give you his current address," he told them. He picked up the pen and scribbled something down on the paper pad. When he finished, he ripped the paper off and handed it to Sherlock.

"He's in Glasgow," Sherlock commented.

"For another two weeks," Kenneth informed them.

"I guess we're taking a trip to Scotland," Irene replied cheerfully. "That would be all, Kenneth. Thank you for your time."

"I'm not proud of what my brother does," he admitted. "But he's still my brother. I'd do anything to protect him."

* * *

The weight of the world had fallen onto Mycroft's shoulders, and it was pinning him down. He buried his head in his hands, staring down at his desk. Papers covered it. His usually neat work space was a mess. His desk reminded him of his brother's place these days.

"When will we catch a break?" he muttered to himself, scanning the information on Moriarty one more time.

"Sir?" Anthea's voice interrupted him.

He glanced up, staring into her confused eyes. "About that tail you had us put on Sherlock," she began.

Mycroft groaned, rubbing at his face wearily. "What did he do now?" he asked.

"Well, he went with Irene to visit a man named Kenneth Schlebach," she informed him. "Does that name sound familiar?"

"Probably just a client of my brother's," Mycroft replied dismissively.

He looked back down at the papers littering his desk. "There's something I'm missing," he muttered.

The phone rang. Mycroft reached a tired arm out to answer it. "Mycroft Holmes," he announced, holding the phone to his ear.

"Well done," came the high-pitched, sing-songy voice of the consulting criminal.

"What do you want?" Mycroft answered, suddenly fully alert.

"You canceled the meeting," he remarked, disapprovingly.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "What of it?" he asked, fearing the answer.

"We need to meet," came the criminal's answer. "Alone."

Inside his chest, his heart pounded harder. Mycroft was so used to being the one in control. He hated being at Moriarty's mercy. "And why would I want to do that?" he questioned.

"It would save Sherlock's life," Moriarty informed him.

When it came to his little brother, Mycroft was rarely logical. When his life was in danger, Mycroft became uncharacteristically rash. "When and where?"

"1500 River Street. 7:00 tomorrow. Don't be late."

Mycroft swallowed heavily. "I'll be there," he responded softly.

"I don't think I need to tell you the importance of telling no one."

"You don't," Mycroft agreed.

There was a click on the other end as Moriarty hung up. Mycroft held the phone in his hand for another moment, paralyzed with fear. The silence hung heavy in the air as he gently set it down. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"Are you alright, sir?" Anthea finally asked, both breaking the silence and reminding him of her presence.

Mycroft looked sternly up at his assistant. "You heard none of that conversation," he informed her matter-of-factly.

"Yes sir," she answered. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Not this time," he answered with a long-suffering sigh.

* * *

"I'm impressed," Sherlock announced upon arriving back at the flat.

"With what?" Irene asked, staring at him in confusion.

"You managed to blackmail a man with tying him up," he answered, grinning mischievously at her.

Irene rolled her eyes and smirked. "Those days are over for me, Sherlock," she reminded him.

The high-pitched barks of Tag filled the flat as the small dog sprinted across the room to greet Sherlock. His face lit up as Tag approached him. He reached down, scratching the dog's head. "Ms. Hudson is going to hate you," he commented. "She even complains that I'm noisy."

"Sherlock, that's because you shoot at the wall and screech your violin at ungodly hours in the morning," Irene playfully informed him.

Sherlock shrugged before sitting down on the couch. Tag leapt up next to him, climbing into his lap. His dark coat was already covered in dog hair, as well as the couch fabric. "He is a mess though," Irene commented. "How did I get her permission?" she wondered.

"We should start packing tomorrow," Sherlock announced, abruptly changing the subject.

Irene nodded and sat next to him. The dog scrambled into her lap for a moment before hopping down, apparently bored with both of them. He laid at Sherlock's feet, sighing as he did so.

"He likes you," Irene commented. "That's good. Maybe he'll wake you up if someone breaks into our hotel room in Glasgow."

"We're taking him?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course we're taking him," Irene replied. "I'm not leaving him here for Ms. Hudson. I don't want to hear the 'I'm Not Your Housekeeper' speech again."

Sherlock chuckled. "Fair enough," he replied. "We leave tomorrow."

"The sooner the better, huh?" Irene asked. "I agree. We need to close in on Moriarty and end this now."

"Preferably before anyone gets hurt," Sherlock agreed. "Well, anyone else." After a long pause, he added, "Anyone I care about."

Irene met his eyes. For once, they were still. Rather than scanning everything in the room, they looked up at her in hope.

"We're going to get him," she responded, smiling encouragingly.

He leaned forward slightly with his eyes scanning her face quickly. Suddenly, he had leaned in all the way. Irene could feel his lips awkwardly pressed against hers. She froze in shock, her mind desperately trying to process what was happening.

Before she could move, he had pulled away. His face was flushed with embarrassment, and his eyes looked everywhere but at her. "S-s-sorry," he stuttered. He stood quickly, scaring Tag, and backed away.

"Wait," Irene called out, standing up.

Sherlock held still, staring down at his shoes. He reminded Irene of a nervous child. She approached him slowly, hoping he wouldn't run from her. He stayed, and she stood in front of him. Gently, she cupped his cheek with her hand and brought her lips up to his.

"You just took me by surprise is all," she said softly after kissing him.

"Y-yes," he stuttered. "Of c-course. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Irene told him. Her hand still rested against his face. "I've been wanting to do that for so long," she admitted.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, staring down at her in amazement.

"Really."

* * *

The Watson home was always a bright place. Mary's laughter rang through the air as her husband smiled at her. Just being with them was enough to improve Molly's gloomy mood.

Mary, who was due any day now, leaned back and rested her hands over her bulging stomach. "Do you have a date yet?" Molly asked her.

"One week from yesterday," she answered, smiling brightly. Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Joanie's finally going to be here."

"We're very excited," John added.

Molly nodded in agreement, smiling along with the couple. As she remembered the reason for her visit, her smile faded. She cleared her throat before starting. "John, you haven't heard anything from Moriarty have you?"

John frowned. "He sent us a postcard. Does that count?"

"What?" Molly asked, blinking in surprise.

John stood and crossed the room to the bookshelf. He picked up a London postcard and began reading from the back. "My dear Watsons, I hope you are having a marvelous time while you still can. I'll see you soon. Signed, Moriarty."

Molly suppressed a shudder. "That was in your mailbox?" she asked.

"That was on our front porch," he answered.

"You two should get out of here," Molly informed them. "Find somewhere safe."

Mary chuckled softly under her breath. "I'm an assassin. He's a soldier. We're safe."

"I see your point," Molly answered, smiling. "Just tell me you'll be careful, alright?"

Mary met her eyes and nodded solemnly. "We are," she answered seriously. "We're taking every precaution possible."

Molly nodded in acceptance. Someday, she would have to stop worrying so much, but for now, her friends needed someone to look after them. "So," she began, changing the subject. "How's Harriet?"


	13. Glasgow

7:00 came much faster than Mycroft would have liked. He waited alone along the abandoned street in front of the house Moriarty had indicated. The entire street was in disrepair, and it was far from anything. Mycroft twirled the umbrella in his hand nervously, knowing in his brilliant mind that this was going to end badly.

From his pocket, his phone began to ring. With shaky hands, he pulled it out. After a moment, he answered the blocked caller, already knowing who it was going to be. "Hello?"

"Don't be shy," came Moriarty's sing-song voice from the other end. "Come on inside. I've got the door unlocked for you."

A click let Mycroft know that Moriarty had hung up. He returned the phone to his pocket and approached the door. Just as the king of crime had said, the door was unlocked. Bravely, he pushed his way inside. With his brother's life on the line, nothing would stop him.

The house was dark and empty. As Mycroft guessed, Moriarty stood in the center room, flanked by two gunmen. "You came," he said with admiration. "Not something I would have done for my brother."

Mycroft ignored his last comment and stood as still as he could with his arms crossed, staring defiantly into Moriarty's eyes. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"You haven't guessed yet?" Moriarty asked with a smirk. "All the games, and you couldn't figure out what I was really playing?" As he spoke, he slowly stepped closer. Mycroft could hear the clicking sound from the guns' safeties. He didn't dare move away.

"Some genius you are," Moriarty commented.

"End the games and make your demands," Mycroft stated. "I grow bored."

At that, Moriarty laughed loudly. "Oh Mycroft, you're not bored!" he exclaimed. "Normal life for you is boring, so much so that sometimes, you hardly find the energy to even shower."

Mycroft flinched, wondering how Moriarty knew that piece of private information.

"But I'm far from boring to you," Moriarty continued. "I'm exciting and terrifying. Not to mention, I brought you closer to that cute pathologist. What's her name again? Molly?"

"Leave her out of this," Mycroft spat out through grit teeth.

"So you do care for her!" Moriarty exclaimed with delight.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Mycroft hissed.

Suddenly, Moriarty lunged forwards and covered Mycroft's face with a cloth. "You, of course!" he cried out.

Moriarty's laughter was the last thing he heard before he blacked out.

* * *

The morning sun shone down brightly upon the little blue rental car as it made it's way to Glasgow. Inside, Sherlock sat with Tag curled up in his lap. Every couple of minutes, the driver Irene would glance over and smile lovingly at the pair of them. Her heart overflowed with affection at the sight of Sherlock happy and distracted.

"The Scottish countryside is beautiful," she commented.

"Eh, it's alright," Sherlock responded, not looking up from the dog.

Irene rolled her eyes affectionately before returning them to the road. "I saw that," Sherlock murmured.

"I wasn't trying to hide, sweetie," Irene replied.

From the corner of her eyes, Irene could see Sherlock scrunch his eyebrows in curiosity. "Sweetie?" he asked.

"Yeah, that just kind of slipped out," Irene explained.

"It's fine," Sherlock started. "Just...we should talk."

Irene's heart suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "What about?" she asked nervously.

"This thing...or whatever it is between us."

"Ah," Irene responded lamely. She struggled to continue, but words failed her.

"You're," Sherlock began. He paused, licking his lips. "You're attracted to me?"

"Yes," Irene replied softly. With Sherlock, she felt no awkwardness; only honesty.

"And you like me," he continued.

"A lot," Irene responded.

"You wanted to kiss me?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

Irene nodded her head. "Yes. And you actually did kiss me."

"Right..." Sherlock answered. "So what does that make us?"

Irene thought about it, but she had no idea. This was new territory for her. Before, she had been all flirting and seducing, even if she had liked the other. This however, was different. This was what she expected love to feel like.

"I'm attracted to you," Sherlock supplied. "Not physically of course, but to your mind."

Irene nodded in understanding. With anyone else, she would have been offended, but she had come to understand that Sherlock simply didn't care about looks. It meant nothing to him.

"And I like you a lot as well. I care about you. I want you to be safe and happy. I also want to hug you and to be there for you and-"

He trailed off, staring at Irene, who's face remained impassive as she wondered what to say. "Am I doing this wrong?" he asked.

"No, Sherlock," Irene answered. "You're doing this perfectly. But nothing about the two of us is normal, so perhaps a normal label won't work for us."

Sherlock nodded, considering her words. "We are partners?" he asked.

"Yes," Irene agreed with a smile.

"Who love each other?"

"Yes," Irene replied.

Sherlock returned her smile. "That works for me."

* * *

Molly had called Mycroft fifteen times, and he still wasn't answering. He had been out all night, and by noon, she still hadn't heard from him. She had hardly slept at all last night being frantic with worry. If it had been Sherlock, she would have thought nothing of it, but the older brother was less eccentric and less likely to simply disappear.

She wandered around his office building, looking for any sign of him. Every person she passed stopped and stared. She assumed she looked very out of place, but dressed like a doctor, no one wanted to stop her.

Finally she saw his assistant sitting behind a desk focusing on her phone. "Anthea!" she called out as she rushed over.

Anthea glanced up with a mixture of surprise and worry. "Ms. Hooper? What are you doing here?"

"I need to see Mycroft. Where is he?"

Anthea searched her face for a moment before frowning. "Mr. Holmes isn't in today. I assumed he was with you."

Molly's heart nearly stopped as Anthea's words sunk in. "He didn't tell you what he was doing," she stated, her anxiety multiplying by the second.

"No," Anthea answered with an expression that matched the way Molly felt inside.

Molly nodded, swallowing dryly. "Alright. Where did you last see him?"

"Leaving the office last night a little after six," the assistant answered.

Molly closed her eyes and hung her head. That was so early. "Did he say where he was going?"

Anthea hesitated for a moment before answering, "No."

Sensing the lie, Molly pushed on. "Anthea, he is missing," she reminded her. "I need to find him. His life could be in danger."

With a sigh, Anthea nodded. "He was meeting Moriarty."

"What?" Molly shouted, causing everyone nearby to stop and stare.

"Lower your voice!" Anthea hissed under her breath. Angrily, she grabbed the other woman's wrist and dragged her into the office behind her.

"You let him go? Alone?" Molly questioned frantically as soon as the door was closed.

"You don't understand what it's like working here!" Anthea argued. "My life is at stake here. My hands were tied! I could be fired for sharing this with you now."

"You won't be," Molly promised solemnly. "But you need to help me find him."

Anthea nodded. "Alright," she responded. She walked over to the messy desk and picked a torn piece of paper off of it. With reluctance, she handed it to Molly. "This is where he went."

"Thank you," Molly replied, stuffing it into her pocket. "I will find him. I promise."

* * *

The atmosphere in Glasgow was different but not unpleasant. The sight of both Victorian and modern architecture was familiar, as was the smell of pollution hanging in the air, but the air felt cool and damp against his skin. The sea breeze had a different smell to it than the river, and Sherlock could taste the salt on his tongue. The noise was less, but only by a small amount. Sherlock assumed only he could sense it, but he couldn't be sure. As much as he loved London, it was good to get out every now and then and let his senses experience something new.

He held Tag tightly to his chest and followed Irene through the parking lot. As he passed the strangers, he let the deductions sink in. He knew about the bald man's cat, and that the red-haired woman's mother had died recently. To others, it was a strange thing to know as much as he did, but to Sherlock, it was a gift.

"Here's the front door," Irene announced. She held it open in front of her. "After you."

Sherlock entered the hotel and was instantly pleased by how quiet it was. He approached the front desk, smiling at the man behind it. "I booked a room. The name is Holmes."

"Alright. One second," the scotsman replied, turning to his computer. As he did, Sherlock turned a genuine smile to Irene, who returned it. Her smile was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen, and it made his stomach feel like it was flipping inside him.

"There's been a problem," the scotsman announced.

"Problem? What problem?" Sherlock questioned impatiently.

"The guests in that room needed to stay an extra night, but we've got another room with a queen-sized bed for you and your wife."

"No, I'm not-" Irene started.

"That'll do just fine," Sherlock interrupted.

Irene's face had turned bright red. As the man handed Sherlock the key, he tried to ignore the heat radiating off her body. His stomach rolled with anxiety at her embarrassment, but he did his best to ignore it as he walked to the elevator.

Once the two were alone inside, Sherlock asked, "Does it embarrass you that much?"

"I only worry what you might think," Irene answered honestly.

"Why would I care?" Sherlock asked, deeply confused.

Irene shrugged. "People are complicated. But, who cares what they think? If you don't care, then neither do I."

She grabbed his hand and held it tightly, smiling. As always, her touch settled his nerves, and he let himself smile back. With her, everything was going to be okay.


End file.
